


The Address is 221B Baker Street

by impulsereader



Series: you can imagine... [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Much Ado About Nothing, Shakespeare, Sherlock meets Shakespeare, the baker street interludes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-20
Updated: 2013-04-09
Packaged: 2017-11-16 15:37:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 30,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/541073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impulsereader/pseuds/impulsereader
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>These Baker Street interludes are a monthly peek into the preparations John and Sherlock undertake as they get ready to take on the roles of Benedick and Beatrice respectively.  Not every chapter will have Shakespeare, but most will feature some connection to Much Ado.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. January

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Resolution to the Silver Blaze case and Sherlock goes shopping to fulfill his promise to John.

John Watson, formerly of the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers, currently of the Keeping Sherlock Holmes Alive Club, was nobody’s fool. He knew all too well that the sentiment which had led Sherlock to offer him the Christmas gift of one trip to the shops was to be exploited immediately in order to ensure that it actually occurred.

In preparation for this, when they arrived home at Baker Street he cleaned out all the cabinets. He tossed anything which was even near the expiration date, and merrily served up omelettes for dinner in order to use up the last of the eggs. Once the cupboards were bare and the refrigerator contained one lonely jar of pickled pancreas, he sat down to make a list.

Decisively, he wrote down: Milk.

*****

The day after the list was born happened to be the day on which the Wessex Cup race was due to be run. That morning it was agreed that after the race John would go to the surgery, where he would be taking an emergency shift as requested in an early morning call from a hysterical Sarah who was frantically trying to deal with an epidemic of food poisoning among her staff, and Sherlock would do the shopping.

First, though, there was a Colonel Ross to irritate.

John, mindful of the fact that there was still an innocent man being detained in the matter of Straker’s death, had rung Lestrade and invited him to come along for the reveal. Now, the two of them walked along in the chill air, strolling and enjoying the electric atmosphere of the track. Sherlock had dashed off somewhere upon their arrival, and John was using the opportunity to practise allowing him out of his sight without chasing after him.

“I suppose this is something I’m going to have to mop up after he’s waltzed off the field of play?”

John grinned. “You’re mixing your metaphors, but otherwise, yes.”

“All right, fill me in.”

“The forensics, when they finally come in, are going to tell you John Straker was killed by a horse kicking him in the skull.”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah. But he was trying to lame the animal, so it’s justice served, really.”

“Hm.” Greg sounded unconvinced.

“After committing the murder, the horse wandered off and was effectively kidnapped by the owner of the rival stable. That’s where Sherlock found him.” John considered trying to candy-coat the next bit, but decided if he couldn’t be straight with Greg at this point there was no hope of his staying out of prison for the rest of his life. “Ross had got a bit shirty, and we decided,” (he cheerfully implicated himself as well, figuring he had punched Ross in the nose, after all), “to have a bit of fun with him. Sherlock convinced Brown to keep the horse concealed until it was time to run this race.”

Greg rolled his eyes and bit back the impulse to lecture. He knew he’d just be wasting his breath. “Right, so why am I here? To arrest the horse?”

“Well, if you like.” Greg shot him a sharp glance, and John grinned. “I just thought that since Sherlock planned to dump all the paperwork on you, you could at least get in on the fun part.”

“Yes, well I’m not allowed to annoy civilians when I’m on duty,” he grumbled in return.

“But you enjoy watching Sherlock do it.”

“I don’t,” he denied, a light of mild panic in his eyes.

“Yes you do; go on, admit it between friends.”

Greg hummed, then equally hawed to keep the matter balanced. Then, a bit grudgingly he admitted, “All right, I do. They always look so angry, and they so clearly want to punch him, but they never actually do it. It’s like you’re sitting and watching for the tide to come in, but then it doesn’t. It’s dead fascinating.”

“Sherlock is a force of nature,” John agreed, though personally he expected he himself was at least partly responsible for this miraculous effect. He prided himself on having developed a very effective, ‘Touch him and die,’ glare.

“Jo-ohn!” The call came in a sing-song from Sherlock, who was practically skipping, a protesting Colonel Ross being herded without actual contact, just the deft movements normally associated with expert sheepdogs. “Look who I found!”

Something loosened in John’s chest at the sight of his partner. He’d done well, he told himself. He’d let him wander and now he was back; safe and sound. “Colonel Ross,” he greeted the sputtering man, “how nice to see you again.”

“Colonel Ross tells me that of course he’d know his own horse anywhere, that a child could recognize him. What do you say, John?”

“Hm.” He pretended to consider, allowing the drama that Sherlock so adored to build. “I’m not sure. Horses can be tricky, changing colour when you least expect it. There’s a saying, you know,” he added, aiming it at Ross in a confiding tone.

Ross glared at him. John beamed back.

Greg cleared his throat. He wasn’t sure if John Watson had the same magical ability to remain un-punched as did Sherlock Holmes. “Well then, a missing horse. I understand you’ve already sworn out a complaint, sir, or I would be happy to write it up for you. Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade.” He reached out and the other man automatically shook his hand.

“Pleased to meet you, Detective Inspector.”

“Now, what seems to be the trouble?”

Clearly irritated (check, thinks John), Ross went on, “As you say, a missing horse. Mr Holmes here personally assured me Silver Blaze would run in the next race today, yet I have seen neither hide nor hair of my horse.”

“Patience, Colonel,” chided Sherlock, and John rolled his eyes at the hypocrisy of it all. “I assured you Silver Blaze will run, and so he shall. I have personally arranged it for you, as I promised. Now, as you say, the race you have such an interest in is next. Shall we secure a spot from which we can observe the running of it?”

Grumbling under his breath all the way, Colonel Ross allowed Sherlock to herd him to an advantageous viewing spot. Greg and John followed, hiding grins and exchanging glances which threatened to unleash harmonized giggles.

Ross made a great show of examining each horse as it strode by on its way to the gate, enjoying himself immensely until there came the sixth and last horse bearing a jockey clad in the black and red silks which were the Colonel’s own.

“What the devil?! What horse is Joe riding? Where the blazes is Silver Blaze? Where’s my horse, dammit!”

All three men, Sherlock, John and Greg, toppled over laughing at the sight of the irate, red-faced Colonel jumping about and gesticulating wildly as he cursed and consigned everything he could think of to the devil. That was how they missed the beginning of the race.

After a moment, they pulled themselves together and found that the Colonel had done the same; he was now watching the race intently and apparently cheering on whatever horse it happened to be which was wearing his colours.

Sherlock heartily clapped the Colonel on the back. “You see? He’s off to an excellent start, Ross. Capital!”

John knew he shouldn’t be as amused as he was. If the horse didn’t win they were going to be in so much trouble - but it still would have been worth it.

Happily, Silver Blaze did win the race, and John breathed a sigh of relief over it as the foursome proceeded to reunite the horse with his owner in the winner’s circle.

“You see, Colonel, you have only to wash his face and leg, and Silver Blaze will be returned to you in markings as well as in body.”

Ross looked uncertain now, and John smiled smugly. “The _genuine article_ , wouldn’t you say, Colonel Ross?” he put in snidely.

The smaller man shifted his weight from one foot to the other uncomfortably. “Yes,” he said, “I suppose so.”

*****

“So you’ve got the list?”

Sherlock growled, low in his throat, because this was the third time he’d been asked a near variant of this question since they’d left the track. “Yes, John. I’ve got the list,” he replied as patiently as he possibly could (which was not very). He even retrieved the piece of paper from his pocket and waved it in the air to prove the veracity of his statement.

“And you’re going to stick to the list.”

He refused to dignify this with a response, instead exchanging the infuriating list for his phone and tapping out a text to Lestrade.

“Sherlock.”

He ignored him, looking up the weather in Fez for no reason.

John sighed, reflecting uncomfortably that if he had realized he would be sending Sherlock off on his own, he would have been much more specific when he’d drawn up the list; he would have included brand names and the colour of the tin which was wanted. He just couldn’t shake the feeling that this could all go so horribly, horribly wrong. “You know what, never mind. We’ll do this some other time when I can go with you.”

Sherlock looked up from his phone and drew himself up indignantly. “John, are you implying that I am incapable of doing this on my own?”

John considered that carefully before answering truthfully, “Yes.”

Possibly he should have considered even more carefully, because he saw immediately that there was now absolutely no possible way he was going to be allowed to tag along and monitor the shopping expedition. Sherlock had gone all offended on him.

“I _choose_ not to do the shopping. I am most certainly _capable_ of acquiring and bringing home the required items.”

“Last month you washed your hair with dissolved dishwasher tabs because you’d run out of shampoo,” John pointed out.

“Oh, it’s all soap for heaven’s sake! What’s the difference?”

“The difference is that particular soap made your scalp so itchy, and you so annoying because of it, that I had to go out at three in the morning to get you proper shampoo to keep from shooting you.”

“Mmm.” He turned back to his phone.

“So what that means,” John went on, “is that when you see the word ‘shampoo’ included on a shopping list you need to actually put shampoo into the trolley rather than any old soap.”

“Oh look, this is where you get out.” Sherlock banged on the divider and gestured toward the kerb.

“Sherlock, this is -,” John began to protest, because it was still a good two blocks’ walk, but the cab had already come to a stop and his friend was shoving at him insistently.

“A bit of a walk will be good for you. I’m certain that’s one of those things people say. See you at home.”

John gave up, opened the door, and stepped out of the car. He leaned down and regarded his partner, who was once again absorbed with whatever his phone was telling him. In a last ditch attempt to keep the inevitable at bay he instructed sternly, “Stick to the list, Sherlock. The list is not a suggestion; the list is your god for the afternoon.”

His friend looked up and affected a wounded expression. “I am extremely hurt by your lack of faith in my abilities, John. I assure you that I will, in fact, shop much more skilfully than anyone else who has ever shopped in the history of popping out to the shops.”

“That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.”

*****

Sherlock frowned mightily at his new arch-enemy – The List. He was feeling acutely annoyed that John didn’t trust him. This had been his idea, after all, his gift for John. Still, he supposed that past actions associated with doing (or not doing as the case may be) the shopping could have tainted his friend’s expectations for this particular gift. He was also annoyed because whilst doing the shopping wasn’t normally his area, when he _made_ something his area (even if just temporarily) he did it extraordinarily well and, what’s more, he did it with _style_.

And so, with a flourish, Sherlock claimed a trolley and swooshed into the Waitrose.

On the list: Milk

There was – _good lord_ , there was a lot of milk. He’d had absolutely no idea there were so many ways people attempted to make one sort of milky thing seem different from another sort of milky thing.

He gritted his teeth.

Bloody hell.

The milk was important. It was for John’s tea. This was supposed to be John’s gift. Sherlock was supposed to be being extraordinarily good at this.

He peered myopically at some of the choices on offer and took a half-hearted peek into the fridge in his mind palace; this yielded only a severed head and a bit of margarine (he chucked the margarine into the bin of deletion, unsure how it had got in there in the first place).

He sighed a long-suffering, Sherlockian sigh. He pulled out his phone.

*****

“John, thank god. I really can’t thank you enough for coming in. I told those idiots not to all go out for Chinese together.”

Sarah looked frazzled, but still lovely as usual and he cursed himself yet again for not trying harder to make things work between them. How could he have known so early on that dates which devolved into attempts on their lives would be the best he could hope for where a relationship was concerned?

“It’s not a problem. I’m happy to help.”

His phone chimed. Instinctively, he pulled it out and checked the message while with the other hand he hung his coat on a hook.

*Advise details of milk selection.*

John could just see Sherlock, tapping his foot impatiently, awaiting the response. He looked up at Sarah guiltily. “Sorry, it’s Sherlock.”

She tensed, and caught her lower lip between her teeth for an instant. “John -,” she began in a warning tone.

“No, sorry, I’ll not go dashing off, I promise. It’s just -,” he paused fitfully, then finished in a rush, “He’s doing the shopping, and it’s just now hitting me what an awful and terrible thing I’ve unwittingly unleashed on the world by sending him to the shops alone.”

Sarah stared at him for an instant, then laughter bubbled up from the depths of her and she looked ten years younger and as if the weight of the world had been lifted from her shoulders. “You got Sherlock to do the shopping?” she asked, her words punctuated with giggles.

John grinned and playfully protested, “It was his idea, I just gave him the list.”

Sarah’s laughter only grew. “A list! You gave _Sherlock_ a list and sent him to the shops! Oh my god, this is wonderful. There’s bound to be an exploding Tesco any second. You should really phone round to the nearest A &E so they’re prepared.”

*Where are you?*

*Don’t be stupid.*

*Which shop, you twat.*

*Waitrose.*

“He’s gone to Waitrose.”

Sarah’s giggles had yet to trail off, and this news fuelled them like dry tinder. “Of course he has! Of course Sherlock went to Waitrose.”

“Pull up their online shopping, yeah?”

She stopped giggling for an instant because her eyes grew wide and her lips parted as her jaw very charmingly dropped. “You, John Watson, are a genius,” she breathed.

*Whole milk - look for blue caps.*

Sherlock pocketed his phone, picked up the first carton with a blue cap he saw, and bunged it into the trolley. (He does not read the label, and therefore does not realize it contains Alpro chilled almond milk.)

*****

On the list: Eggs

He took stock of the options presented to him.

Ostrich, duck, quail, and - what he confirmed based upon rough pictograms because none of the packaging stated this clearly - chicken. He reached out confidently, then faltered short of the mark. He was meant to buy chicken eggs, yes? Normal people ate chicken eggs. It should have been obvious, shouldn’t it? Yet, next to him, an ordinary-looking relatively young woman (stay at home mum - just left the kids with granny - happily married [for now] - grew up in Stickney - used to play piano) was quite casually checking her duck eggs to be sure none were cracked.

Sherlock _frowned_ at the exotic array of eggs.

His fingers twitched just slightly as he considered texting John again. He dismissed the thought nearly before it had formed, because he was _perfectly capable_ of doing the shopping!

Sherlock then resolutely turned the power of his brain on the eggs.

He confiscated one carton of each variety, removed one egg from each carton, and placed Specimens Q, C and D in a row on top of the carton containing the remaining chicken eggs. Specimen O is too large to fit on the carton so he places it on the ground to the right of it.

(Sherlock is unaware he has now gained an audience comprised of a handful of shoppers who are strolling along eyeing sidelong this oddity sitting cross-legged in the middle of the aisle. Each of them fervently hopes this chap will continue staring intently at the four eggs long enough for him or her to casually speed round the corner and down the next aisle over, then slowly meander past the eccentric again to see if he’s done anything else interesting.)

Luckily, Sherlock was extraordinarily clever, and a visual examination proved to be all that was needed. He was able to dismiss Specimens O and Q out of hand. The ostrich egg was clearly too large to be what he was after. The quail eggs were small and spotted; hardly proper eggs at all, he would have complained mightily if John had served those up at breakfast. Specimen D was larger than Specimen C, but not cartoonishly oversized as was Specimen O. It would have been interesting to perform an experiment to compare the volume of the contents of these Specimens. He could determine if it would be more cost efficient for John to boil one ostrich egg rather than...waste of time, he reminded himself. Specimen C was clearly what was routinely fried up and soft boiled at 221B Baker Street. Why the rest of the world wanted wretched tiny spotted eggs he hadn’t the foggiest notion.

He put the unwanted eggs away neatly (because when you are experimenting in an unfamiliar lab it is polite [and much safer] to leave things as you found them if at all possible) then selected a carton of eggs which had been produced by various members of the species Gallus domesticus.

*****

On the list: Bread

After his study in eggs, the bread selection seemed reassuringly straightforward - at first. Shelf after shelf of plastic-encased, pre-sliced potential toast was on offer.

Sherlock prided himself on being an expert chef based upon the fact that he could produce slices of toast which were completely and without question edible...with no _predictable_ negative after-effects. He didn’t, of course, do so frequently, but possessing the skill was, to his mind, enough to be getting on with.

But again, there was so very bloody _much_ of the stuff! Even just narrowing the selection to whitish, mostly square loaves left him with a bewildering array of choices. What could possibly be so different about bread?

In a fit of temper he decided to find out. He systematically plucked from the shelf a package of each specimen which was whitish and mostly square. This made the trolley rather full, but he was sure that once he’d gotten back to the flat and proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that there was no significant difference and there should only be one type of whitish, mostly square bread for sale, it would all be worth it.

*****

On the list: Muttlefishing

*What the bloody hell is muttlefishing?*

*And what aisle is it in?*

“Muttlefishing?”

“Is that Sherlock?” Sarah popped her head round the door. “What section is he in?”

“I have no idea. He’s asking me about muttlefishing. What the hell is muttlefishing?”

“Never heard of it. Spell it for me.”

He did, and she typed it into the search box. “Waitrose hasn’t heard of it either.”

“Try a Google search maybe?”

“One word, yes?”

“He sent it as one, but it sounds made up so I’m not certain.”

“Mm. One word brings up youtube links, is it a band?”

“Sherlock hates pop music. He says it makes his brain bleed.”

“Does he mean muddle with a D rather than muttle? Fish muddle – two words – brings up some recipes. Maybe he’s going to make you dinner?” As she added this last bit she started giggling again.

John snorted. “Ha bloody ha. If he does you can be my taster.”

*No idea. Why are you buying fish?*

*It’s on the list – my god, remember?*

John frowned.

“What?”

“He’s saying there’s fish on the list, but I didn’t put it on there. I don’t like cooking fish in the flat, it makes it smell all fishy for days.”

Sarah grinned. “And you have quite enough mystery smells going on in 221B without your adding to them.”

*No fish on the list – what are you on about?*

*Muttlefishing! It’s right here on the list! Now what bloody aisle is it in? I expect it’s next to the toothbrushes considering the organizational system employed by this wretched store.*

John thought for a bit, running over the things which he’d put on the list. “Oh lord, he’s misread multivitamins.”

Sarah dissolved into laughter. “Your handwriting really is awful,” she managed.

*****

Not on the list: Salad dressing

Sherlock was sailing through one of the aisles when the word ‘pizza’ caught his eye. John had just been saying something about going out for a pizza yesterday. It occurred to him that he could make his gift even nicer if he included a pizza with the shopping so that they could stay in, still have a pizza, and Sherlock himself could get on with his experiment comparing the melting point of the tissue of individual human organs without the distraction of being dragged out. He stopped the trolley.

Looking more closely, though, he realized he was in the midst of the salad dressing selection. Half an hour previously he would have told you salad dressing and pizza could not possibly be shelved next to each other in any organizational system; now he barely blinked at the idea. Glancing around, he tried to catch that flash of the word again. After a second he did, and frowned. It was on a splashy advert stuck to the shelf. Pizza Express House Dressing! it declared in bright letters.

Well honestly, Sherlock thought, that was just false advertising. What the hell did pizza have to do with salad? Affronted, he turned on his heel and propelled the trolley forward, in search of _real_ pizza.

Not on the list: Pizza

*What kind of pizza do you want?*

John frowned. Pizza wasn’t on the list either.

*I sense you are straying from the list.*

*You wanted a pizza. I am purchasing you a pizza. What kind do you want?*

“Where is he now?” Eagerly, Sarah peered over his shoulder at his phone’s screen.

“He seems to be buying pizza. Which is worrisome.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Why? Pizza seems safe. If he were buying butane I’d say you should be worried.”

“Actually, with Sherlock I’d consider butane fairly safe. Pizza, though, isn’t on the list.”

*Stick to the list.*

“I can’t believe he hasn’t been thrown out yet.”

“He can actually behave himself fairly well these days.” John considered that statement. “Unless provoked,” he qualified.

*****

On the list: Biscuits

The less said about the row in the biscuit aisle over the last package of chocolate hobnobs, the better.

Just know that Sherlock emerged victorious and John would not have to go without.

*****

Not on the list: Colgate toothpaste

Sherlock’s brain did the calculation handily. The three for two offer was not something to be sneered at.

Not on the list: Mr Muscle Sink and Drain Foamer

Ditto. John would be ever so pleased when there were three bottles rather than just one to combat his latest experiment turned plumbing obstruction.

On the list: Beans

Beans were beans. He seized the first ‘Heinz’ writ large and tossed whatever pack of cans it happened to be scrawled across in with the rest.

(The bread layer in the trolley sinks another inch under this fresh assault, but Sherlock isn’t terribly concerned about this. He can run tests on smashed bread just as easily as he can on intact loaves.)

*****

On the list: Tea

*I am being followed.*

“Now he says he’s being followed.”

“Ask him which aisle he’s in.”

*That seems unlikely. Where are you?*

*By the PG Tipps. I am being followed by a very sneaky little old lady who is after your chocolate hobnobs.*

John dropped his phone he was laughing so hard.

“What? _What?_ ” Sarah hopped from one foot to another, eager to be let in on the joke.

He waved one hand helplessly at the phone. She picked it up and was soon in a similar state.

“Sherlock is being tailed through the aisles of Waitrose by Mrs Slocombe, you know he is!”

“And she’s after the chocolate hobnobs!”

“She’s walking on tip-toe and peering round corners at him!”

“Planning her heist!”

“She’s going to casually ask him to get something down from the highest shelf to distract him while she plunders his trolley.”

They gave in and simply howled with laughter for a little while. The phone chimed again, and that was enough to set them off all over again.

Wiping tears of laughter from his cheeks, John checked the new message.

*I have resolved the situation and can confirm I am in possession of the hobnobs.*

The phone chimed again.

*The hobnobs and I, however, are now in custody.*

*****

In the end, they needed Greg to do some badge flashing and rather fast talking. It seemed that this particular Waitrose had been having problems with the local youth and sticky fingers, so their security force was operating under strict orders to take no nonsense. Sherlock was lucky to have avoided being doused with pepper spray; luckily he had spotted the danger in time and sensibly adopted a plummy accent along with his best ‘to the Manor born’ attitude. This had confused everyone long enough for John to arrive on the scene, and when it became clear Mrs Slocombe was determined to see genuine police action and the Waitrose personnel were similarly inclined, he apologetically called in their favourite DI.

Unfortunately, Greg had spent the time between their little outing to the track and being summoned to the Waitrose by John sorting through all the paperwork for the Straker case, so he wasn’t in the best of humours by the time the badge flashing and fast talking was required. That was why, after about twenty minutes of this, he simply said, “Fine. I’ll arrest him. Sherlock, hands.” He cuffed the proffered wrists, walked him out to his car, and inserted him into the backseat.

“Greg, stop! This is my fault; I shouldn’t have sent him on his own. You can’t arrest him for this, can you? He hasn’t actually done anything wrong.”

“John, shut up, I’m not arresting him. That was just the quickest way to get him out of there and I was sick of trying to humour those plonkers.”

John blinked. “Oh.”

“Yes, oh. And you’re right, this was your fault. What were you thinking?”

“He insisted,” protested John.

“Sherlock insisted on doing the shopping,” said Greg doubtfully.

John waved a hand through the air helplessly. “It’s a long story; can we just go home now? This has been a very long, very strange day.”

Greg sighed. “Yes, fine. I’ll drive you; get in.”

Once the car was moving, the DI glanced in his rearview at his passengers. “Listen, if the two of you get in any more trouble in the next few days, call Dimmock. I’ve had it about up to here.” With one hand he indicated a high water mark somewhere above the top of his head.

John winced. “Yeah, sorry. Like I said, it’s a long story.”

Sherlock was uncharacteristically silent, as he had been since that last text message. He stared intently out the window.

It wasn’t a long drive to the flat and they were soon home; Sherlock swooping up the stairs and John following more sedately in his wake.

After he’d taken off his coat, John instinctively headed into the kitchen to make tea, but was faced with an empty cupboard. “Shite.” He went into the sitting room where Sherlock was striking a pensive pose on the sofa. “I’m off out to get some tea and I’ll pick up a takeaway on the way back. Curry or Chinese?”

Sherlock looked up at him, his expression stricken. “John, I’m sorry.”

John blinked.

“I thought I could do it; and despite the frankly irrational organizational system I was doing well. I -,”

“Sherlock, stop. It’s fine. Your shopping trip was derailed by a mad little old lady over a bag of chocolate hobnobs. It could have happened to anyone.” It couldn’t have, of course, but he lied without compunction. Sherlock, however, did not look cheered. John was surprised all over again that his friend was obviously taking his failure so seriously. Suddenly a thought occurred to him. “You can still do it, you know.”

“I suppose there are other shops, or I could go back to that one in disguise.”

“No,” John said smugly, “I mean you can do it from the comfort of the flat. Here.” He handed him his laptop. “They have online shopping. They’ll even deliver it for you.”

“Oh.” Sherlock’s eyes grew wide. “I can still give you your present.”

Sherlock was, again quite uncharacteristically, now regarding the computer with a rather dopey grin on his face, and John felt ridiculously pleased that it really meant so much to his partner that he get this present thing right. “Yes. You can. Have you still got the list?”

Triumphantly, Sherlock produced the wretched list from a pocket.

“Good. Don’t worry about sticking to it too closely. We can have a pizza if you like.”

Sherlock was already logging into the site, typing one-handed, and to John’s astonishment he used his free hand to produce a bag of chocolate hobnobs from another pocket.

“How on earth did you manage to get away with the hobnobs? That woman was clutching them to her as if they were her firstborn and you were Rumpelstiltskin.”

Sherlock shrugged, munching a biscuit and typing borinactives into the search field. “I wasn’t going to go through all that for nothing. What the hell are borinactives?”

John peered at the list. “I have no idea, even I can’t make out what I meant there.”

Sherlock tutted fretfully. “You’re making it very difficult to give you a Christmas present John. This year I don’t think I’ll bother.”

“Perhaps that’s for the best.”


	2. February

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock MST3K the 1993 Kenneth Branagh/Emma Thompson film adaptation of Much Ado About Nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to fancy this up and add to it or try to make it funnier by watching the movie while drunk, or something else equally ridiculous. But I've decided it's best to leave it as it is, much the same as when I first wrote it when watching the movie for the gazillionth time, but for the first time after all this madness began.

Mass bathing scene. Your lot aren’t going to manage that I expect.

*a considerable pause*

Sherlock?

We should be safe within a Regency setting.

*****

Ouch. Damning with faint praise. Ha. Short daughter. Clearly I fall in love with you because you’re so tall.

mm.

I’m rather a prat.

Yes.

This chap, Claudio, he’s sort of a sap, isn’t he?

I’m pleased you’re grasping the basic character types so thoroughly.

Shut it.

*****

The villain is getting a massage while wearing leather trousers. This is truly disturbing.

I am afraid this villain is an example of a character not yet being fully formed. He was a forerunner of Iago. One would have hoped that an American could have infused him with more energy, though.

He is - troublingly awful. Much too stiff.

*****

Hm. Should I have a beard?

*a considerable pause*

Yes.

*****

But see, wait, now her father is saying he wants her to say yes if the Prince asks her to marry him.

Yes.

But the Prince is going to give her to Claudio.

Yes.

How is her father going to feel about that?

Glad to be rid of her.

Seriously, Sherlock. This is classic bait and switch. You want a Prince for the family and you end up with this sap, Claudio.

This was when you paid the man to take away your daughter, John.

*a considerable pause*

Hm. Right.

*****

Good lord, I am a complete and utter bastard.

As I have just pointed out quite effectively.

Hang on, he’s making a move on you!

Yes.

But that’s my job.

Well then, get on with it.

I can’t. There’s this script thing in the way.

*****

Oh, dear; poor me, I’ve lost my best mate to a woman; a short woman at that. Sherlock how the hell am I going to pull this off?

It will be fine; stop worrying. Indeed it is passing strange, Benedick, well spotted.

*****

Is that a monk?

Why would there be a monk?

I don’t know, but look, that musician has a rope belt. He’s a monk. Isn’t that odd?

Hm. I imagine they had an extra costume. I can’t think of any other reason for there to be a random monk.

I’ll back it up.

You won’t, I don’t care if there’s a random monk. Just watch the film.

*****

Watch this closely - not the physical comedy, that’s awful. Good actors feigning bad acting is always instructive.

He’s buying this?

Yes, it’s that script thing again. Besides; recall Beatrice’s implication that he had lent her his heart a while.

Oh! Oh, I’d forgotten that. They’re exes, then. That does add another dimension. Perhaps I should call Sarah and see if she’d be willing to run lines.

Why would you need her? You have me!

Yes, I can’t imagine needing anyone other than you. Ever. For anything. Oh, look, it’s your turn to fall for bad acting.

*****

Snerk.

What?

Taming your wild heart to my loving hand. I’ll get right on that, shall I?

Quite.

*****

Rousing music - cut to - oh, good, the comedy bit. Yes, do knock that off, it’s annoying. Ha! Oh, hey, Batman!

Who?

The American, he was Batman a long time ago.

What are you on about?

Batman - look, never mind.

*****

Oh, god.

Yes. He is still just as awful. Oh look, I’m a fop here as well as an arse.

You’re not an arse anymore; you’ve turned fop instead.

*****

dun dun dun

Yes.

*****

Oh, certainly she would have objected to his calling another girl’s name!

*aggrieved sigh*

Less enlightened time, right, sorry.

*****

Random monk! Random monk!

Will you shut up about the monk?!

Oh! He’s a friar! The musician from before with the rope belt. That explains it - oh, hang on, that’s not, oh – Hey! Knock that off you sap!

*pretzel bits shower the telly*

Well, do consider what he thinks he has seen.

No, that is just not on. I don’t care what he thinks he’s seen!

No, of course you wouldn’t.

What’s that supposed to mean?

Nothing. You’re just very – Chivalrous – as a general rule.

*****

What? That doesn’t make any sense. Why would he forgive her just because she’s died?

Just stalling for time, really.

Oh, here we go. Well, at least you can cry on cue.

How do you imagine I acquired the skill?

Eat what?

Words.

Ah.

Oh god, I’m going to have to kiss you, aren’t I?

What will people say?

Exactly. Though I suppose being engaged changes things somewhat.

Do keep in mind that I will be wearing a dress.

Oh! Do you know, that honestly hadn’t occurred to me.

I thought that would make you feel better.

God, that wouldn’t work unless they were exes.

Indeed. It works much better if an intimacy between Benedick and Beatrice is manifest.

*****

Oh good, funny bit.

Stolen away; we are saved!

Hm?

No more of the leather-clad American.

Oh. Um. Good. That was – abrupt.

This particular departure is welcome no matter how abrupt.

*****

See? Her being dead hasn’t made a difference.

Again, stalling for time.

Oh, I like this. I’m avenging the wrong.

In the name of your lady, no less.

Again with the kissing!

In this scene I am the party refusing to kiss you. Please do act as if you would like to kiss me.

Too wise to woo peaceably.

Indeed. And then we all dance.

We’re going to have to dance?

There will be lessons, don’t worry.

I could elect to have an appendectomy.

What?

I could go in for a voluntary appendectomy. If someone is actually performing surgery on my body, Grandmother wouldn’t be able to force me onto the stage.

John, you’re being ridiculous.

It’s perhaps a little extreme.

She would sew you up herself and then force you onto the stage.


	3. March

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock teaches John the first rule of acting. Rehearsal and character building ensue.

“Sherlock, did you take my -,” John didn’t get to finish his question, which wasn’t really important because, considering how it began, of course the answer would have been in the affirmative, whether or not his flatmate deigned to give voice to the acknowledgement.

“Are you ready?” Sherlock interrupted him impatiently and thrust his script into his hand.

John stared at it dumbly. “Ready for what?”

“Ready to rehearse of course.”

“Well, I suppose. I mean, I was going to -,”

Sherlock looked at him sharply and interrupted, “What do you mean ‘you were going to’? Didn’t you check the schedule?”

“There’s a - sorry, there’s a schedule?”

“Of course there’s a schedule! Why wouldn’t there be a schedule?”

John couldn’t even begin to enumerate the reasons why there wouldn’t be a schedule. He opened his mouth to try, then closed it again. It just didn’t seem worth it. “Um, okay, where’s the schedule?”

“Oh, I don’t know, John, just in the place where schedules belong!”

Annoyed now, he refused to guess. “Which would be where exactly?”

“Guh! On the fridge of course!”

John blinked in astonishment. He couldn’t pinpoint exactly why, but it seemed as if this should have been one of those weird Sherlockian things where for some reason, in Sherlock’s mind palace, schedules belonged taped to the underside of the coffee table or suspended from the ceiling of the ballroom to dangle and spin at eye level. He felt as if he’d just discovered the first and possibly only ‘normal’ thing about his flatmate aside from the fact that he seemed to have a pulse just like everyone else. “Okay,” he said slowly, “so now I know. How long are we scheduled to rehearse right now?”

Imperiously, Sherlock declared, “For as long as it takes.” He then spun dramatically on his heel and stalked into the sitting room.

John rolled his eyes. Okay then, so much for going down the pub for the match. He imagined this was going to take a while.

Sherlock had shoved the furniture and other various detritus in the room toward the walls, leaving an unevenly shaped open space which encompassed the approximate middle. This meant that though he was now lounging in his usual chair, it had been moved out of its normal place.

He was sprawling, looking lazy and expensive as only Sherlock could. John stepped over a displaced stack of books to perch on the sofa.

“The first rule, John, is to never break character.”

“Okay,” he agreed easily.

Sherlock frowned at him. “No, seriously. Once you start a scene, do not _for one split second_ break character until the scene has ended.”

“Yep. Got it.”

There was more frowning and it now bordered on glowering. “Ever.”

Since he’d already agreed twice and it hadn’t got him anywhere he remained silent. After a second, he gave a curt nod, hoping to move this along.

Clearly still unconvinced, Sherlock sighed. “Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you, trippingly on the tongue.”

“Trippingly, got it.”

“That’s Hamlet,” Sherlock stated flatly.

“Mm. Well I knew it was Shakespeare.”

He looked slightly mollified. “Specifically, it is Hamlet instructing the players for whom he has written a play; a play which is meant to catch the conscience of the king.”

“Right, I remember that bit. He’s written out how he thinks his uncle killed his father; it was something about pouring something in his ear.”

“Nor do not saw the air too much with your hand, but use all gently.” Sherlock looked at John expectantly.

“Erm. Don’t flail my arms about on stage?” he interpreted.

“Don’t be a ham,” Sherlock elaborated.

John grinned. “Just a Ham-let?”

“That is possibly the worst joke you have ever made.”

He shrugged. “I’m sure I’ll make worse in future.”

“Be not too tame neither; but let your own discretion be your tutor: suit the action to the word, the word to the action.”

“This is all fairly common sense stuff, Sherlock.”

“I’m pleased you think so. Now let us see if you can carry it off.”

And John immediately got nervous. They didn’t even have an audience and he was already nervous. Bugger.

“Turn to page 23. We’ll do a little back and forth and then you have a short speech which we’ll work on.”

Nervously, John obeyed.

“All right, so this is right after Done Pedro has staged his little scene on which you were meant to eavesdrop. You remember, of course.”

“Yes.”

“So I’ve been sent to fetch you in for dinner, and you’re apprehensive because you now think that I am desperately in love with you.”

“Right.”

“We’ll go through it once as us with the script then we’ll try it in character and see if we can’t do it by memory since it’s rather short. All right?”

“Yes, all right.” John firmly tamped down his nerves.

“You can do this John, really you can.”

He took a deep breath and nodded.

In his normal voice and with natural inflection, Sherlock read out, “Against my will I am sent to bid you come in to dinner.”

John took another breath and did the same. “Fair Beatrice, I thank you for your pains.”

“I took no more pains for those thanks than you take pains to thank me: if it had been painful, I would not have come.”

“You take pleasure then in the message?”

“Now you see – this is where you’re feeling me out, trying to see if you can tell if I really am interested in you.”

“Yes, I’d spotted that.”

“Very good. Yea, just so much as you may take upon a knife's point, and choke a daw withal. You have no stomach, signior: fare you well. And then I exit. You followed all that?”

John smiled. “Yeah, I followed it. I’m not actually an idiot, you know. We watched the movie and I followed it just fine.”

Sherlock let out an exasperated breath. “Then please do make up your mind. You are either nervous about performing this part or it is the simplest thing in the world. Right now you are swinging wildly between two opposing attitudes.”

“I’m nervous,” insisted John tetchily, “because I can understand the text and know that I’m not supposed to break character but still not be able to act the part, Sherlock. Now do you want me to read my speech aloud or not?”

He waved an impatient hand. “Yes, go ahead, read it through and get used to how it sounds.”

“Ha! 'Against my will I am sent to bid you come in to dinner,' there's a double meaning in that. 'I took no more pains for those thanks than you took pains to thank me,' that's as much as to say, ‘Any pains that I take for you is as easy as thanks’. If I do not take pity of her, I am a villain; if I do not love her, I am a Jew. I will go get her picture.”

Somewhat snidely, Sherlock said, “Follow all that as well?”

“Aside from hoping that I’m not actually being anti-Semitic, yes.”

“Only mildly.”

“Mm. This last bit is quite funny, aside from that. I’ll just run off and get her picture so I can sigh over it, eh?”

“Yes, well spotted.” He sounded for all the world like a proud parent. “That is a funny line. Don’t be afraid to have fun with it.” With a graceful movement which was practically a plié, he rose out of his chair and swept to the middle of the room. “Now let’s do it in character.”

John, utilizing a much more reserved method of perambulation, joined him. Sherlock studied him with a critical eye, and he immediately felt self-conscious. He fought the urge to smooth his hair.

“If you were going to be doing a lot of this sort of thing -,”

John snorted. “Not bloody likely.”

“-this would be a different thing altogether, of course.”

“Oh, of course,” he said mock seriously.

“But as it stands,” Sherlock went on, unfazed by this backchat, “I just want you to play yourself. Benedick is a soldier; you know how it feels to be a soldier. Benedick wants to be in love with Beatrice and wants her to be in love with him; you’ve experienced that scenario as well in your life. The verbal play between the two of us is simply so much foreplay leading to the wedding night. Benedick is honourable, a good friend, and he tells a good joke. There is nothing in any of that which might throw you off, you can simply be yourself while playing this part.”

John considered that. After a moment he said, “That actually makes a hell of a lot of sense. ”

Sherlock raised a brow, clearly amused. “This surprises you?”

“Sort of, yeah. I expected you to launch into a lecture on The Method or that Staniwhatsis bloke.”

“Stanislavski,” Sherlock filled in. “Well, as I said, this is a rather singular case. Do you feel more comfortable now?”

“Yeah, I do.”

He clapped his hands together. “Excellent. Let’s begin.”

John reflected that he would never tire of seeing Sherlock become another person right before his eyes. In this case he was suddenly John’s own height, he looked supremely irritated (which, in and of itself, John admitted was not unusual), and when he spoke it was with a woman’s sultry alto wreathed in smoke rather than his own either purring or clipped baritone. It was, quite frankly, amazing. He wished that his lines would have allowed him to express that – and then realized that right there was his character’s motivation. He himself admired Sherlock terrifically, and in this case Sherlock was Beatrice. If he were actually Benedick, the possibility that Beatrice was in love with him, that he had a genuine shot with her, would be an incredibly heady one.

“Against my will I am sent to bid you come in to dinner.”

And despite Beatrice’s clear irritation, she was supposed to be madly in love with him. John rather thought Benedick would be a bit thrown for a loop here. Therefore he delivered his first line hesitantly. “Fair Beatrice, I thank you for your pains.” He found himself instinctively bowing slightly from his waist as he addressed his acting partner.

“I took no more pains for those thanks than you take pains to thank me,” Beatrice sniffed and added, “if it had been painful, I would not have come.” The tacked on, ‘You dolt,’ was strongly implied by Sherlock’s manner and tone.

Well then, John as Benedick thought, that seemed both clear and promising. “You take pleasure then in the message?” he attempted to confirm.

“Yea, just so much as you may take upon a knife's point, and choke a daw withal. You have no stomach, signior: fare you well.” And she flounced off.

John decided that Benedick wasn’t an idiot, and he hadn’t missed that little jab (as it were) about the knife. So he started off with a weak, possibly a slightly sick-sounding, “Ha!” Clearly the reason Benedick was repeating Beatrice’s words was because he was stalling, looking for a way to cast them into the best possible light. This was also probably why he ignored the bit about the knife. He decided to deliver the first part thoughtfully. “Against my will I am sent to bid you come in to dinner.” He paused, then Benedick as prompted by John rather comically decided, “There's a double meaning in that.”

“Very nice,” Sherlock murmured.

John only broke character in his head, puffing up just a bit at the praise. He switched back to contemplative. “I took no more pains for those thanks than you took pains to thank me.” John urged Benedick to, what the hell, run with it, and he delivered the next bit with a goofy grin on his face and in a triumphant tone. “That's as much as to say, ‘Any pains that I take for you is as easy as thanks.” He went on in a similar manner, still smiling, but talking to himself now, nearly chiding himself. “If I do not take pity of her, I am a villain; if I do not love her, I am a Jew.” And then, he had fun with it. He remembered how dotty he’d been over Suzanne Morris back in sixth form and allowed both the memory of that first rush of infatuation and the realisation of how silly he must have been acting whenever she was within earshot, and he put all of that into the next words. “I will go get her picture.”

To his absolute delight, Sherlock emitted a sharp bark of laughter. “Very nicely done, John. Now memorise it and we’ll try it again.”


	4. April

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is awoken in the middle of the night by Sherlock's violin.

It was unusual for the strains of Sherlock’s violin to wake John in the early hours of the morning now. This wasn’t because Sherlock played more often during the more appropriate hours when Apollo graced London with his light; it was because John had long since grown used to his playing when Diana reigned ascendant. Generally, this no longer woke him.

When he was pulled from a particularly deep sea of dreams in the small hours of an April dawn, though, he could not identify any other reason why he might be awake rather than still asleep.

Sherlock was likely meditating upon their latest case. Or perhaps he had that bottle out again. His flatmate certainly did enough thinking; enough, in fact, to account for the entire population of London (and possibly the entirety of Britain with certain other smallish European countries thrown in) doing incredibly stupid things because Sherlock was using up all the rational thought which had been chucked into the communal pool and leaving none for anyone else.

That, John thought, was the sort of wandering and irrational thought that hit you when you’d woken from some really strange dreams and your brain was still buzzing with sleep. A communal pool of thought energy with the rational bits all being hogged by Sherlock? He vaguely wondered if he should turn around on the stairs and go back to bed; that might be safer. But he’d already spent long minutes lying there, trying to sort out the strange visions which had invaded his sleeping consciousness. The feeling that he still mightn’t actually be awake as he made the attempt hadn’t been helping at all. A cup of tea was definitely what was wanted.

He stumbled, and almost fell, but caught himself. _I do not know, Says the great bell of Bow._ There had been bells, so many bells; London’s church bells, and their rhymes over and over in his head.

And it was strange, because everyone always harped so much on the end with the head chopping bit, but all John had got in his dream were the bells and the monkeys throwing lemons at each other. _You owe me five farthings, Say the bells of St. Martin's._ Lots and lots of bells, granted, but he hadn’t felt threatened, just confused by all the damn bells; and the rhymes hadn’t come in the right order, as he knew they should do, and that had confused him too. Plus the zombies.

Also angels, but that had made a little more sense because of the churches and the bells, he supposed. The angels had been playing crazy golf and wearing roller skates. _When will that be? Say the bells of Stepney._ It had been nothing at all like the dreams from which he awoke sweating and swearing and wanting to weep, because he knew very well that zombies were dispatched by a simple headshot with a lemon. There had been plenty of lemons.

He had begun knee-deep in oranges and he’d had to wade through them to get to the church from which the bells were calling to him. _When I grow rich, Say the bells of Shoreditch._ When he had reached his goal he had found solid stone surrounding him, but an enormous emptiness above.

A thick, soft rope had been before him and he had wrapped both hands around it; he had pulled firmly, and there were more bells. Always more bells. _When will that be? Say the bells of Stepney._ Also more monkeys. He had suddenly found himself back outside the church, this time standing on top of the oranges and watching the monkeys play cricket using a lemon as a ball on a field of peppermint bark.

A couple of the zombies had been recruited to be the bowlers and John had joined an existing audience consisting of about a dozen penguins who clapped politely when the batter got a six. John applauded as well. _When will you pay me? Say the bells of Old Bailey._ Some of the penguins were grumbling about the fact that they weren’t able to join in the game because they had flippers rather than proper hands. Wings? They were birds, perhaps flippers wasn’t considered a polite term.

Penguins? London bells, the churches of London, and penguins? Monkeys, lemons, zombies, penguins, oranges and bells; always the bells.

_Oranges and lemons, Say the bells of St. Clement's._

Blearily, John registered that he’d reached the kitchen. The tune Sherlock was playing was familiar and it itched at the back of his brain insistently. Annoyed, John told it to fuck off while he made some tea.

When he brought the tea into the sitting room, he waved the mugs about dramatically before deliberately placing one of them on the stable surface closest to Sherlock. He then retreated to the couch and cupped the mug with his hands; the ceramic was too hot to be strictly comfortable and he let the unpleasant sensation pull him a bit further from the zombies and lemons and bells. He inhaled the warm, steamy scent of the rich brown liquid.

After a moment, he realised he was humming under his breath Oranges and Lemons, and it was (quite strangely to his mind) harmonising rather nicely with the piece Sherlock was playing. His humming was pulled along by the violin, and after a while he further realised that Sherlock’s piece was circling round and round but not including the head-chopping bit of the rhyme; otherwise it was definitely Oranges and Lemons. He could feel a goofy sort of grin on his face. Sherlock’s violin had invaded his sleep and essentially sent him on a musical trip.

Constantly discovering the new, amazing things which happened to him because he was Sherlock’s flatmate would never, ever grow old.

John took advantage of a pause in the music for notations to be set down on the sheet music. “Sherlock, what is this? What are you playing?”

His flatmate reached absently for the mug of tea and sipped before replying, “It’s my sonata.”

John blinked. “The one we found in the attic?”

“Mm hmm.”

“Oranges and Lemons?”

“Variations on the tune, yes. That’s what a sonata is.”

“All right, but, Oranges and Lemons?”

“I _was_ only six, John. I’m expanding it now though, adding to it.”

John thought for a moment. “Were you partial to monkeys when you were young?”

***Later, after John has climbed the stairs and fallen back to sleep…***

John had a bright orange balloon.

Sherlock had a huge bunch of balloons, a mix of orange and yellow.

Suddenly, he thrust his handful of strings at John and exclaimed, “You go by air! I’ll go by sea!” He dove into the ocean which had just obligingly turned up.

As the balloons began to tug him into the air, John shouted, “Where are we going?”

“I’ll meet you at the British Museum where we can pick up our ostrich!”

Right then. John turned his attention to the important task of managing the balloons. He was gaining altitude swiftly, and gaining speed as he rose. Once he got high enough he could see he was headed the wrong way almost entirely; northish instead of west.

‘When will that be?’ called out the bells.

He had to figure out some way to turn or he was going to end up in Hackney, and that wouldn’t be helpful in the least. Though he supposed he could switch to the rail line there, but Sherlock hadn’t said anything about travelling overland.

No, he’d stick with the balloons, he decided.

Experimentally, he divided the huge bunch as equally as he could and separated them so that he held one in each hand. He then _pulled_ to his left.

This shifted his course immediately; he was going northwest now, which was an improvement, but he was going even faster and he still needed to eliminate the north part of this equation completely.

“Oi!” he yelled up at the balloons, “Take the speed down a notch, won’t you?”

There was a bit of a stutter in their movement, then his speed slowed considerably.

“Much obliged!”

‘When I grow rich,’ answered the bells.

Thinking quickly, John realised that if he could manage to travel due south, he could then follow the river into the City. He tried _pulling_ to the left again, harder this time, more insistently. It worked splendidly and he was soon headed in the correct direction. He smiled broadly because this was quite fun. Trust Sherlock to find a whole new way to travel. John was just lucky he hadn’t hogged this for himself and sent John off into the water.

He and the balloons hummed along for a bit and they soon came to the river.

‘Oranges and lemons,’ said the bells.

There was a giggle to his right, and he looked over to find a cloud floating near him on which was seated a very well-endowed young woman wearing some sort of shepherdess outfit complete with bonnet. Next to her was a fuzzy white lamb and a bushel basket full of oranges and lemons.

“Do you need any oranges or lemons, kind sir?”

“Mehhhhhhhhhhhhh.”

“I don’t, actually.”

‘You owe me five farthings,’ accused the bells.

There didn’t seem to be any hard feelings, though, as the young woman giggled again and waved cheerily as they drifted apart.

‘I do not know,’ insisted the bells.

The balloons were doing some _swooping_ now and John was having a fantastic time. It felt like the best part of being on a swing: all the almost scary but still exciting fluttery feelings in his stomach, with none of the work of pumping himself into the air.

‘When will you pay me?’ enquired the bells.

After a bit more navigation and a little bit of fancy flying which put a goofy grin onto John’s face they arrived. The balloons set him down gently on the roof of the Museum.

“Thank you,” he said to the balloons. “I’m going to tether you in case Sherlock still needs you for something.” He tied up their strings and patted at them fondly.

“John!”

‘Pokers and tongs, Say the bells of St. John's.’

He looked over to see Sherlock, at rooftop level and looking like he was floating in mid-air. He was juggling three oranges and three lemons around in a blur of colour. John frowned. Surely that couldn’t be right. No one, not even Sherlock, could float in mid-air. He moved toward the edge of the roof, and after a few steps he realised that his friend was riding an elephant.

“Come along, we’re travelling on.”

John settled himself behind Sherlock on the elephant’s back. He enquired, “Why is your elephant orange with yellow stripes?”

Sherlock snorted in derision. “Someone thought it would make him look faster. Idiot.”

John contemplated the elephant seriously. “He should have made them horizontal then. These do make him look slimmer.” He patted the elephant fondly. “But I thought we were after an ostrich.”

‘Bull's eyes and targets, Say the bells of St. Margret's.’

“We were, but this is faster.”

Riding the elephant turned out to be fun. Not quite as fun as the flying, but definitely a good time. After a few minutes they were joined by a troop of monkeys who darted all round them; clambering over and climbing on the elephant, through the trees that lined the street, playing catch with oranges all the while. One of the monkeys kept cheekily pulling Sherlock’s curls as he darted past him, causing his friend to curse imaginatively and making John giggle.

“Whoops!”

John had never heard Sherlock say ‘whoops’ before, and if he’d had time to think about it he would have expected that to herald trouble. It did, in fact, as was proved by the elephant abruptly disappearing from underneath them.

‘Pancakes and fritters, Say the bells of St. Peter's.’

Strangely, the fall wasn’t abrupt, they simply drifted to the ground and ended up landing in the midst of a chattering clump of the monkeys on a patch of soft grass. “Must have been a local,” remarked Sherlock. Looking around, John saw they were in Bloomsbury Square, and the elephant had popped back into existence a short distance away; he was getting a drink from the fountain. This was where he’d run into Mike on that fateful day.

‘Two sticks and an apple, Say the bells of Whitechapel.’

“There, we’ll take those!”

John looked over in the direction Sherlock was pointing and saw the oddest little cars; they weren’t really proper cars at all, more like go-karts partly encased in plastic bubbles. One was orange, and the other yellow, the second a bit smaller than the first.

Sherlock took both of John’s hands and pulled him to standing. He smiled broadly then dashed over and leapt into the orange car. He started it up and looked over at John impatiently. “Come on! Do keep up! We have criminals to catch!”

‘Old Father Baldpate, Say the slow bells of Aldgate.’

John hastily ran over, got into the yellow car, and punched the single button on its dash. The vehicle sputtered to life and he was soon hot on Sherlock’s heels as their little citrus cars zoomed through the streets of London.


	5. May

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft stops by for a visit. Shakespearean hijinks ensue.

“The new newsletter is out.”

Annoyed at the interruption, Sherlock didn’t even try to keep the tetchiness from his voice. “What are you on about?”

“Grandmother just sent out this month’s Production newsletter, you prat. Do you think I’d be telling you I just got an inside line on Top Gear’s latest news?”

Mention of the Production immediately chased away his irritation. “What does it say?” He got up to read over John’s shoulder.

“We’re supposed to have learnt our lines by now.”

Sherlock snorted in derision. “What else? Anything helpful?”

“What exactly would be helpful aside from my suddenly being possessed by the spirit of Laurence Olivier?”

“Olivier never played Benedick.”

“This, you retained.”

“Knowledge is power where the Production is concerned. He would, of course, be capable of playing the part, so you’re right that it would probably be helpful.”

“Hm. He’d probably be a bit of a hindrance during a foot chase, though. Swotty actor whinging on about the physical exertion.”

“Yes, if you’re going to go down the possession path, do choose someone useful in a fight.”

“They’ve all been taught to swing a sword round uselessly; nothing you can do once that’s in their heads.”

“Perhaps you’d best not, then.”

“Mm. Grandmother wants an update from us. I’ll let her know we’ve decided against possession, shall I?”

“Do.”

“There’s a sketch of the set design.”

“Hm…” Sherlock leaned further over John’s shoulder in order to study the scan of the sketch. “That’s good, I’ll take it into account when we rehearse.”

“Oh.”

“What?”

“Hm.”

“ _What?_ ”

“Erm, Don Pedro has been recast.”

“And?”

“I think you’ll find, Brother dear, that I have been assigned the role.”

Sherlock froze. Surely, he thought, Grandmother wouldn’t have done this to him. Grimly, he corrected himself. In Grandmother’s eyes all was fair in love and the Production. “What, you couldn’t convince her you’d make a _most exquisite_ Claudio?” he sneered without turning to his brother.

“Why on earth would I want to take on the role of that idiot child?”

“Oh I don’t know, Mycroft, perhaps to keep your lady love from kissing some other clot.”

“My – lady love – as you so charmingly name her, is free to kiss any clot she pleases.” He paused. “At least, in the service of the Production.”

“And I suppose you expect me to fall into line as Don John?”

“Well,” purred Mycroft, “while that would certainly be appropriate casting, as you are already filling a role and presumably know at least some of your lines, it would be counterproductive to reassign you at this point.”

Sherlock bristled. “I know _all_ of my lines, Mycroft.”

“Do you now?”

And… they were off, John thought. Grandmother possibly had no idea she had just set off the Apocalypse. In an attempt to ward off the inevitable, he blurted out, “What is her name, by the way? Your - lady love?”

Mycroft turned to John and smirked that Mycroftian smirk of his. “What makes you think she has just one?”

“Well, most people do.”

“She is very definitely not ‘most people’.” He bristled as if John had labelled her some sort of barnyard animal.

“All right, all right, calm down Signior Mountanto.”

Sherlock’s head whipped around, his smile that of a proud parent. “John,” he exclaimed, “that was perfectly done. Bravo!”

“Well we are living and breathing Shakespeare this year. Some of it’s bound to creep into our daily snark.”

“How delightful,” drawled Mycroft, “the Holmes family has managed to elevate Dr Watson’s insults to the level of the Bard himself.”

“Next thing you know I’ll be biting my thumb at you, and then you’ll truly understand how much I dislike your kidnapping me off to abandoned warehouses.”

“Oh, very good, you’re even branching out into other plays; I might in turn suggest thou art like a toad; ugly and venomous,” he said mildly.

John glanced to Sherlock, hoping his partner realized he had already exhausted his store of knowledge in this area.

It seemed he did, because he had already struck up his ‘about to lay into Mycroft’ pose; fingers steepled and eyes alight. And I,” he drawled, “would respond, Brother dear, that you are both strangely troublesome and a tedious fool.”

Mycroft sniffed and brushed absently at his impeccable coat sleeve. “Your abilities are too infant-like for doing much alone, little brother.”

“Me think’st thou art a general offence and every man should beat thee,” came the response, a touch of heat surfacing in his tone.

John raised an eyebrow and walked over to the desk to boot up his laptop.

“At times, Sherlock, thou hast the most unsavoury similes, which leads me to think your brain is as dry as the remainder biscuit after a voyage.”

“Thou sodden-witted lord! Thou hast no more brain than I have in mine elbows.”

John couldn’t help grinning because that had been particularly well-aimed. He scrolled through the insults the internet was so cheerfully providing.

“Take you me for a sponge?” queried Mycroft witheringly.

“Thou clay-brained guts, thou knotty-pated fool, thou whoreson obscene greasy tallow-catch!” spat Sherlock.

Suddenly John chipped in, “You rampallian! You fustilarian! I’ll tickle your catastrophe!”

The brothers turned and cast upon him twin looks of disbelief. John shrugged. “If you can point to it I’ll have a look at it in a strictly medical capacity then decide whether or not it should be tickled; but, you know, to paraphrase.”

Mycroft, having belatedly remembered he had come for a reason other than the flinging of Shakespearean insults, cut in to put an end to the nonsense. “A matter has come to my attention which may be of some slight interest to you in a professional capacity rather than in the Shakespearean line.”

Sherlock glared at him out of habit. “Is it boring? The last time you came it was boring and I had it solved before we’d finished tea.”

“I assure you it is not boring.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically. “Thou art as fat as butter.”

“This is the file.”


	6. June

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A case courtesy of Mycroft provides a bit of a romp through Kew Gardens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter comes to you courtesy of quarryquest (on LiveJournal) who wanted a bit of a romp through Kew Gardens with some specific elements thrown in. A couple of moments come with illustration in the form of pictures taken at the Garden by our intrepid locationeer. The filming for Sir David Attenborough’s Kingdom of Plants did take place as described though I believe it actually occurred in June of last year so it’s been a bit time travelled into the future here – or perhaps I am simply predicting the sequel. :-)

The case Mycroft had brought them in May had proved itself both engrossing and entertaining. Throwing together a ring of diamond smugglers, Sherlock undercover as a deep-sea diver, John undercover as a holiday-maker with an adrenaline addiction, a troop of trained seals, and a half dozen pogo sticks will generally drive all the boring right out of a situation. It was well into June by the time they’d finished with it.

What was less amusing (well, no, actually it was quite amusing except in Sherlock’s view) was the case which Mycroft somehow managed to tack onto the end of the deep-sea-diving diamond smugglers. Sherlock, flushed with the success of closing the case, had intended to sweep in and out of his brother’s office with the greatest of flair. Unfortunately, it hadn’t exactly worked out that way.

John immediately recognised they were in trouble because Mycroft’s eyes lit up with what, in another individual, would have been termed ‘unholy glee’. Here of course it was simply a minute change in expression, but John was well-versed in the nuances of Mycroft by this point.

“Sherlock -,” he had begun warningly, intending to cut this short and deal with the fall-out of a stroppy Sherlock denied his gloat rather than the fall-out of a full-blown Holmes brothers ‘happening’.

“Do come in,” Mycroft had finished for him, firmly shutting the metaphorical window of John’s escape.

Oblivious to this interplay Holmes Minor swept across the room dramatically. “No need to thank me. It was nothing.”

“Oh really? My sources told me you were nearly consumed by a whale and John was forced to break into the Embassy -,” he paused mid-sentence, allowing the glare to fully form on his brother’s face. “whilst clothed in a parrot-patterned Hawaiian shirt,” he finished smugly.

“Yeah,” put in John, his tone Saharan in nature, “It’s hard to say which presented the greater challenge, the out-of-date security system or the lack of a skin-tight cat suit to highlight my arse as I cart-wheeled through the gaps in the laser beams.”

Sherlock snorted. “How could you be so remiss in your choice of wardrobe, John?” he chided. “When one is called upon to serve Queen and Country one must be ready for all eventualities including that of showing off one’s shapely arse.”

“Mm. We’ll hit Savile Row at the weekend, then, shall we?”

“Feel free to charge the purchase to the Crown,” smarmed Mycroft.

Sherlock’s eyes lit up and John firmly stated, “Don’t even think about it. I am _not_ dealing with _that_ audit.”

There was a discreet knock on the open office door and Not Anthea stepped inside. “Mr Wiggins, Sir.”

“Yes, please bring him in.”

“We’ll just be going then. Come on, Sherlock.” John spun on his heel and strode towards the door but his retreat was once again cut off, this time by Not Anthea’s return with a small, nervous-looking man who was presumably Mr Wiggins.

“Actually, I believe the two of you might be of some small service in this matter as well.” He paused, metaphorically pulling back the hammer. “Unless, of course, you could do with a bit of a _siesta_ between cases?”

Predictably, Sherlock bristled; John sighed.

“Nonsense. I’ll have it solved within twenty-four hours.”

Mycroft smirked. “Oh, I don’t think you will, brother dear. It’s _quite_ the problem.”

John nearly groaned aloud. He would never understand why there were some moments when Sherlock let Mycroft push him into things like this. Surely he could see that this was leading nowhere good; even John could see that.

But instead of making a graceful exit as clearly would have been wise, he snapped, “Twelve hours or I’ll accept the knighthood.” The next instant Sherlock had focussed the full intensity of his deductive gaze upon the person of Mr Wiggins. The man began quaking in response. “Give me all the facts,” he demanded, “Leave nothing out, but be as quick as you can.”

Mr Wiggins paled and John was afraid he was going to faint, but instead he managed to blurt out, “Someone is trying to murder Tubby!”

Sherlock blinked at Mr Wiggins. He then glanced uncertainly at John who had his arms crossed over his chest and was shaking his head. “ _I_ saw it coming a mile off.”

[](https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/UukwsbBADuZBNKSFmBBPDsZyMdkkPXDGthZAxHku8WI?feat=embedwebsite)

Tubby, it turned out, was one of the Asian Water Dragons who resided in the Princess of Wales conservatory in Kew Gardens. Apparently the reptiles were excellent at controlling parasites and had been recruited for this skill. Mr Wiggins, the dragons’ primary caretaker, had been bringing his case to Mycroft because he was on the Board of Trustees. Mycroft had seen a golden opportunity to off-load the man when John and Sherlock had turned up at just the right moment. He had, ever so graciously, assured Sherlock that he need not feel bound by his vow. Mycroft had no investment whatsoever in how long it took to solve the case of alleged attempted lizardicide.

Sherlock had stormed out, swearing he would meet the self-imposed deadline then muttered to himself all the way down in the lift. John, who was trying very hard indeed to contain his giggles, could make out: ‘Get it over with!’ and ‘Lizards!’ and ‘Machiavellian octopus!’ and ‘Not a bloody zoo-keeper!’

Mr Wiggins was cowering in the corner, eyeing his newly-appointed saviour warily. John tried to aim an encouraging smile at him, but the incipient giggles were a real hindrance to this effort. Captain Watson reminded himself that the man was a client and did his best to put on a serious face as he assured him, “It will be fine. Sherlock will absolutely get to the bottom of -,” and he paused. Your case? Did it even qualify as a case? The problem? _Was_ there actually a problem? “this,” he finished finally. “He’ll definitely suss out what’s going on. He’s very good at what he does,” he tacked on truthfully.

Sherlock glared at him as if he’d said exactly the opposite, and John gave a ‘Well, what am I _supposed_ to say? The man thinks someone is trying to kill his pet lizard.’ shrug. Sherlock rolled his eyes in response.

Once they were in the car Sherlock ordered, “Explain.”

Mr Wiggins started, twiddled his hands nervously, then the words came spilling out of him. “A week ago I found Tubby up a tree – outside the conservatory! The dragons are meant to stay inside for their own safety and Tubby has no reason to try to escape. Someone,” he insisted firmly, “took him outside.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and grimaced as if in pain. “Go on.”

The litany of wrongs done to Tubby over the course of the week went on. He’d been found closed inside a refrigerator – especially dangerous because of his cold-blooded nature. One of the gardeners had called to Mr Wiggins’ attention a subtle rearrangement of the paraphernalia adorning the desk on which the dragon habitually perched during his visits to the human denizens of the conservatory – he solemnly vowed there had been a crude snare fashioned out of dental floss and a series of paper clips. Sherlock and John managed not to giggle – mostly.

By the time they arrived at Kew Sherlock seemed resigned. He instructed John to talk to as many of the employees as he could to get an overview of the latest gossip.

“And what are you going to do?”

“Make the acquaintance of Tubby,” came the scathing reply.

John giggled; Sherlock glared at him.

“Right. Going now.”

Sherlock turned to Mr Wiggins and instructed witheringly, “Take me to your lizard.”

The smaller man set off at a trot and led the way into the conservatory building which housed Kew’s tropical plants. They found the harassed party lounging by the side of a large pool which was home to a variety of water lilies. As they approached, a young woman rose from a seat nearby and met them a few meters from the dragon. “He’s been fine, Mr Wiggins. Nothing strange has happened since you left. He’s just been posing for pictures.”

Mr Wiggins patted her on the shoulder. “That’s fine Sharon. Thank you. You can go back to work now, I’ll take over.”

Sherlock studied the reptile sceptically. He wasn’t at all certain what he was meant to deduce about the creature, but he had to dig up something to satisfy this odd little man and subsequently reduce Mycroft to a non-entity once more. The dragon cocked its head to the side and seemed to regard him with one round, protruding eye.

Feeling ridiculous, Sherlock nonetheless decided he’d best stick to what he knew worked. “Does he have any enemies?”

He was absolutely astonished when the animal’s caretaker nodded emphatically. “Yes. Of course he does.” Anxiously, Mr Wiggins led him down one of the paths. When they arrived at a particular bush the man gingerly shifted some of its branches and peered into it. “No, not here. He’ll be on one of the heating ducts then.” He walked a bit further, Sherlock trailing after him. “That’s Stubby,” he finally declared, pointing at another dragon which looked quite similar to the client. Its tongue was protruding just slightly from its mouth. “He and Tubby don’t get on. Sometimes Tubby will come over into his territory and they’ll tussle with each other.” He then confided, “Tubby bit off and ate one of Stubby’s toes.”

“Oh I see,” Sherlock said, mock seriously, “so we’re dealing with an act of revenge. That explains so much.”

Mr Wiggins turned and regarded Stubby dubiously. “Do you really think -,” he began, but the detective cut him off sharply.

“Do I actually believe that one lizard took out a hit on another in revenge for an act of violence which resulted in a missing digit? No, because I’m not an idiot. Show me the refrigerator you found him closed into.”

*****

John had had a bit of a flirt over a cup of tea in the café and learned that the person he wanted to speak with was a woman named Madge. She was apparently the person who knew every last little detail about what went on within the microcosm of Kew.

Unfortunately, it seemed she had a penchant for walking round with her radio turned off. Consequently, John found himself in search of a ‘fluffy ginger with grey roots’ who was ‘about my mum’s age’ and ‘wearing wellies with yellow ducks printed on them’.

The most direction he’d been able to tease out beyond the physical description was that she was meant to be working somewhere in the Redwood Grove, and she might possibly have gone to speak with colleagues at the Stable Yard. To get to the latter he should follow the signs for the Compost Heap, ‘It’s very big, you can’t miss it.’. There weren’t really very many situations in which he expected to be advised to seek out a large pile of compost; it was not, however, the strangest thing he’d encountered while on a case.

After about twenty minutes of grid searching the woods, he heaved a sigh and then spotted the loo up ahead. Well that was timely at least, he reflected, and took the opportunity to nip in and deal with the consequences of that extra cup of tea.

He was washing his hands when the little room suddenly went dark and there was a loud, piercing cry from outside and – he got the impression – above him. Hands still wet, his gun was already drawn. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered, quickly and automatically clearing the room much more thoroughly than he had done upon entering it.

He then realised that no one had turned out the lights on him, instead something outside was now covering the window and keeping the sunlight from illuminating the space. The strident call came again and he was able to place it as animal rather than human and confirm his impression it was originating from somewhere above his head. He lowered his gun but kept it out as he slowly and warily moved outside. Once he had crossed the threshold and cleared the area to either side he moved forward and spun round, his gaze instinctively scanning up.

There was a bloody peacock perched on the roof of the loo. Its long, shimmering, multi-hued tail trailing down the side of the building was what had so suddenly blocked the window.

[](https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/Oh4gT664io3oJ8BXQNkyc8ZyMdkkPXDGthZAxHku8WI?feat=embedwebsite)

John raised an eyebrow at the bird and put his gun away. “Pardon me, but are you trying to murder Tubby?” he inquired of the bird, which answered with another long, piercing caw. “All right, relax. Just thought I’d check,” he told it and shook his head. The animals in this place were simply mad.

*****

John did, eventually, find Madge. Over yet another cup of tea they giggled about Mr Wiggins and she filled him in on everything of note which had taken place over the last month or so. When they had finished, John thanked her sincerely, gave her a courtly bow, and stopped just short of kissing her fingertips. This caused her to blush a bit and laugh. “Come along, then. I’ll walk you back to your friend. Going through the Palm House will be shorter. You mightn’t be allowed in today, but as I’m staff it will be fine if I take you through.”

John raised a curious eyebrow. “Oh? What’s going on today?”

“There’s a film crew, but you wouldn’t be interested in them as it’s their first day here. None of them can have been trying to assassinate Tubby,” she added with a grin.

There proved to be quite the fuss of people and wires and equipment outside the building they were cutting through. Madge cheerfully ploughed through it all as she led the way inside, smiling and waving as she went. Once they were inside she slowed a bit and pointed out a few specific plants and proceeded to rattle off extensive background information for each of them. John nodded along while more actively taking note of the activity buzzing all around them. There were lights set up and lots of people milling about. Half of them were glued to a mobile and the other half were as intensely focussed on some piece of camera equipment.

As they weaved through all this activity, there was a flash of blue which caught John’s eye and once he had registered who was wearing the shirt responsible, he stopped short. Madge kept on a few steps before registering his defection, but then backtracked.

“That’s David Attenborough,” he informed her with a touch of awe in his voice, indicating the elderly gentleman sitting on a bench, regarding the screen of his mobile intently.

Madge chuckled. “Yes, he’s here filming for Sky. He’s quite friendly, I’ll introduce you.” She propelled John the short way before he had registered the words. “Sir David,” she said, and the subject of her hail looked up from his phone. “Hello again, you remember me, I’m certain.”

He smiled and responded, “Yes of course. Hello, Madge.”

“I thought you might like to meet another of our visitors. This is John Watson. He’s here with his friend investigating an attempt on the life of one of our Water Dragons.”

Sir David rose and shook John’s hand. “My goodness, I had no idea there was so much intrigue behind the scenes here at Kew.”

His gaze met by eyes which sparkled merrily, John grinned. “I’m told,” he replied, “that the dragons are vital in the effort to keep parasites in check.”

“Dragons and pesky parasites, what could be more worthy of our attention?” returned Attenborough. “I shall make it a point to badger someone into educating me further. Are you _the_ John Watson then?”

John blinked. “Sorry, do you actually know who I am?”

“I am an avid fan, in fact. I shall look forward to reading all about the Adventure of the Dastardly Dragon Assassin.”

John grinned like a fool the rest of the walk, because Sir David Attenborough was a fan of his blog, and didn’t that just beat all.

*****

A still-thoroughly-chuffed John found Sherlock engaged in a staring contest with their client. The lizard was definitely standing up better to this than any of their human clients had ever done. This could be attributed to either the fact that Tubby presumably did not understand the insults which had likely been hurled at him, or that Sherlock could only stare at one of the lizard’s eyes at a time.

“The introduction went well then yeah?”

“I’m attempting to cobble together some plausible fairy tale to explain the _suspicious_ events. At the moment I am considering revising my earlier denial that the solution involves a lizard hiring a hit man.”

John paused a beat in thought. “Not a hit lizard?”

“Wouldn’t be able to open the refrigerator.”

“Right. Of course.” Beat. “Pistol would have been right out as well.”

Sherlock’s eyes shifted to the left and up to meet John’s.

The right corner of John’s mouth was quirked upwards.

The image of a diminutive lizard attempting to shoot a handgun hung in the air between them.

They both burst into giggles and proceeded to fall about laughing. Several visitors to the conservatory eyed them sideways then deliberately moved away from the two grown men doubled over and howling with laughter in a public venue.

“This is, without a doubt, the best case we’ve ever had. We should take all of Mycroft’s cases from now on. They’re all bound to be as madly entertaining as this.” John wiped a tear from the corner of his eye.

“We are never again even entertaining the notion of taking one of Mycroft’s cases. Did you learn anything at all interesting?”

“I learned all sorts of interesting things, but the only one which possibly involves a crime is the fact that when Charles and Camilla stopped by last week she left one brooch lighter.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows went up in that way which meant, ‘interesting’. “Someone nicked a piece of Royal jewellery?”

“They had security in to search everyone as they left the grounds. When they didn’t find it on anyone they passed it off as having been lost because she said the clasp had been dodgy for a while. The staff have all been walking round looking down ever since hoping to find it.”

Sherlock turned a thoughtful gaze back on Tubby.

John waited, knowing that if anyone could connect a missing piece of jewellery with alleged repeated attempts to kill one of the Garden’s mascots, it was Sherlock Bloody Holmes.

Suddenly his eyes went wide. “Oh, of course!” he exclaimed and jumped to his feet. “He couldn’t take it out without camouflaging it somehow. That’s actually quite clever.”

“What is?”

“Our perpetrator fed the brooch to Tubby. He’s now trying to kill the animal and smuggle the jewellery out in the dead body.”

John blinked. “Because taking him out alive isn’t possible.”

“Not when there is a strange little man monitoring the animal’s every move, no.” Sherlock was pacing now, his hands clasped behind his back and his gaze blank. “It was likely a crime of opportunity – no real way to predict what jewellery she’d have chosen – it has to be someone who would have access to the body – in fact -,” his eyes snapped back into focus and he smiled widely. “It would be the person who would ultimately be assigned the responsibility of disposing of the body.”

John checked his watch. “Case solved in approximately three hours and twenty-five minutes. No real danger of the unbearable boredom of a knighthood falling upon your shoulders this time.”

“Let’s go.” Sherlock was already texting smugly. “Fat as butter,” he muttered before emphatically pressing the send button.

“Hang on.” John turned and regarded Tubby seriously. “How do we get the brooch back?”

Sherlock snorted. “You’re the doctor, John. I would think that would be obvious. Either someone follows him round waiting for the inevitable or they put him in a cage until –,”

“Sherlock, there is no way that animal poops out a piece of jewellery larger than a stick pin. They’re going to have to open up the poor little chap.”

“Not our concern.” Sherlock informed him then added cheekily, “You should offer to assist. I’m sure it would add to the blog entry immeasurably.”

“Ha bloody ha, you unfeeling git.” Sherlock was walking now, his gaze glued to the screen of his phone, so John fell into step to avoid being left behind. “You’ve left your client facing major surgery. I’ll have to write this one up as a failure,” he informed him in a tone of mock regret.

Sherlock actually squeaked in indignation. “You’ll do nothing of the kind! I solved it brilliantly.”

John shook his head mournfully. “Try telling that to Tubby. I think you’ll find he would disagree.”

Sherlock turned his head to glare at his friend and deliver a scathing retort, but John was so obviously trying not to smile he realised he was being teased. The corners of his own mouth twitched in response. “I’ll add grapes to next week’s order.”

“Least you can do.” And then John burst out laughing. He actually stopped walking and doubled over again. Amused, Sherlock stopped as well and just enjoyed watching John being happy. After a moment his friend came up for air and said through lingering giggles, “I’m sorry, I’ve just realised – someone was _actually_ trying to murder Tubby. We were so convinced it was all in his head!”

Sherlock raised a brow archly. “Were you?”

“Oh no, don’t even try pretending you believed Wiggins for one second,” John scolded.

“I never theorise before I have all the facts, John,” came the airy reply as Sherlock turned with a flounce and strode on toward the gate.

An efficient army-taught jog had his partner at his side again within a handful of strides. “You are completely insufferable, you poncy git. Oh, and by the way, _Sir_ David Attenborough is a fan of my blog.”


	7. July

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock unseals an adventure.

It was morning, and the sitting room of 221B was uncharacteristically both silent and flooded with sunlight. Clad in pyjamas and dressing gown, Sherlock, of course, couldn’t see himself (or rather wouldn’t seek out his reflection unless prompted) but the abundance of natural light made him look ghostly, ethereal. His pale skin glowed and his eyes were no colour at all. This apparition sat, long fingers and slim hands steepled under his chin as he contemplated the dainty, decorative bottle which he had nicked out of his family’s attic the previous December.

It was sealed.

It was sealed with lead.

He found he was a little bit frightened of what it might contain.

The fear was what made it exciting.

The little spark of anxiety over: what a Holmes could have dreamed up to seal into this tiny prison; what had been thought precious enough to warrant such a safeguard; or what had amused one of his eccentric clan so thoroughly that he had preserved it in such a manner.

The bottle itself was lovely. It had been fashioned in frosted glass, demurely obscuring the contents from even Sherlock’s discerning gaze. It was small enough that it could be slipped unobtrusively into a trouser pocket, but just - the exotically-wrought swirl of glass which topped the stopper would be visible unless obscured by a discreet hand. Aside from that touch of the artisan’s indulgence, the bottle was graceful in its simple lines; a slight belling at the base and a ring of glass to ensure it would sit evenly on a flat surface. It could almost have been a test tube. The collar of dull grey which was its lead seal should have made it ugly, but in this case it was simply a flaw which emphasized the vessel’s delicate beauty.

Sherlock’s contemplation of the bottle was distracted by the tread of early-morning-still-too-bloody-sleepy-for-this-shite-where’s-m’tea-John on the stairs, and the room was soon occupied by not only Sherlock and his Holmesian bottle, but also a yawning ex-army doctor armed with two steaming mugs of the life’s blood otherwise known as tea.

Slowly the yawning gave way to full consciousness, and Sherlock became aware that the contemplation in the room had taken on a new angle. John was contemplating Sherlock who was contemplating the bottle; he could still not be sure what, if anything, the bottle may have been contemplating. Perhaps the bottle was contemplating John; that would be pleasingly circular. The bottle’s contents could also be contemplating something else entirely, provided it was contemplating something other than the bottle which was necessarily all it could ‘see’. John, Sherlock, Bottle, Bottle’s Contents, John, SherlockBottleBottle’sContents,John,Sherlock,Bott-

Sherlock jerked himself out of this reverie with a shake of his head. He picked up the tea which was no longer steaming, but not yet gone cold.

“Morning.”

“What do you put into a bottle?”

“Yes, I slept fine, thanks for asking.”

“Why do you seal a glass bottle with lead?”

“Lovely sunny morning, isn’t it?”

“What does an unknown _Holmes_ put into a bottle and then seal with lead?”

“How’s your tea?”

“Why lead?”

“Enough sugar?”

“It can be dissolved, but not without some finesse.”

“Catch any of _Come Dine With Me_ last night?”

“Why take the trouble to seal something which can be smashed to bits?”

“Funny episode.”

“Why are my relatives invariably infuriating?”

“I’ve never seen a cat-themed bathroom before.”

“I despise Mycroft.”

John gave up. “Why don’t you just open it? You’ve been staring at it on and off for months now.”

Sherlock twitched. That was the very thing; he didn’t know why he hadn’t opened it yet. By all rights he should have done so long since. Even if he hadn’t wanted to fuss with dissolving the lead (and let’s be honest, this was the sort of thing Sherlock liked to fuss with very much), there was a more immediate option.

He could snap the delicate neck.

Easily.

He told himself brute force lacked subtlety, and was not an optimal plan of action for that reason.

Part of the problem was that he didn’t understand why he had picked up the bottle in the first place. But he had, and now he knew there was something in there because when he shook it vertically he could hear a kind of a swishing sound, though not of a liquid sort, and when he twirled it a bit he could hear a very soft rolling swoosh. Whatever it contained did not have much mass; aside from the clues of seal and sounds the bottle could easily have been thought empty when handled.

Clearly, it held a piece of paper.

The question was: did he want to know what had been written on it.

And he did, of course, because by his very nature Sherlock always wanted to know. At least, he wanted to learn so that he could decide if the knowledge was worth retaining.

There was something thrilling, though, in not knowing. Whilst it remained firmly sealed in its lovely bottle prison anything could be written on the paper. It could be a formula for a known chemical, or one previously unknown to all but the mysterious Holmesian writer. It could be a scrawled recipe for an explosive, or one for strudel. It could be a code which coyly did not reveal its key; he could spend the rest of his life never knowing what message had been set down. It could be a knock-knock joke or a passage copied from scripture. It could be a short treatise on the importance of sea turtles to the diversity of life in Earth’s oceans, or a sonnet celebrating the beauty of the autumn foliage in Kyoto. It could be a curse or a lie; it could be a denunciation of the writer’s enemy or an ode to a friend. It could be the score for a short tune; in fact it could be written in any language which basked in the sunshine of the Earth’s sun, including that of musical notes. It could be – Sherlock realised he was being ridiculous. Whatever had put him into this frivolous and whimsical mood?

He determined to open the bottle, and stood to go into the kitchen and make preparations to do so.

A short while later, Sherlock very carefully unsealed the bottle, meticulously eradicating all traces of the lead from the glass.

He then leant back and stared at his now naked bottle. And like a lady stripped of her knickers and denied a changing screen, it seemed to blush at him for a moment. Tentatively, he reached for the stopper, and when no hand materialized to slap his aside, he lifted it away. It slid out easily with a drawn out ‘snick’ of glass on glass.

He set the stopper on the table.

Sherlock held in a breath as he picked up the bottle, now looking even more like a test tube after being divested of its decorative crown.

He was just tipping the delicate vessel and raising his brows in curiosity as he prepared to peer down the neck and catch a glimpse of his mystery paper…

“What’s in it then?”

Sherlock started and bobbled the precious object; there was a clumsy dance of frosted glass and long delicate fingers. A strong, sturdy hand shot out and the glass landed safely within its surprisingly gentle embrace; saved from the fall and cushioned from harm.

“Sorry.” John handed the bottle back to Sherlock. “Go on, tip it out, let’s have a look.”

Sherlock looked up and back, meeting his friend’s eyes. They were crinkled at the corners with good cheer and there was a light of anticipation there; John was ready for an adventure, and suddenly Sherlock wanted to give him one.

With one elegant hand he tipped the opening toward his opposite palm.

A sheet of onionskin, rolled tightly and secured with a very fine length of thread tied into a neat bow, obediently slid out and his hand cupped it instinctively.

Very carefully, he moved to untie the thread, but the delicate fibres disintegrated at the whisper of his touch and fell away from the paper, which remained tightly furled. Even more carefully, Sherlock set the delicate object on the table, pinned the edge with one finger, and slowly eased it flat.

“It’s a map,” John said.

Sherlock took in the hand-drawn lines sketching and intersecting and running alongside one another to form the whole. It was not only a map; it was a map of his family’s estate.

In the left margin, in a neat copperplate script was written:  
‘Where was the sun?  
Over the oak.  
Where was the shadow?  
Under the elm.  
How was it stepped?  
North by ten and by ten, east by five and by five, south by two and by two, west by one and by one, and so under.’  
and it had been signed, ‘With the greatest affection, your loving Violet - Yuletide 1865’.

His eyes lit up and the part of him which remembered a little boy who wanted to be a pirate leapt for joy. He reached out with one impossibly elegant index finger and tapped it on a spot where John knew an ancient and handsome oak still stood because he had posed under it for Claude. “The oak is still there.” He then, slightly less confidently, tapped another spot nearby. “And here there used to stand an elm.” He looked up at his friend, eyes shining. “It’s a treasure map, John.”


	8. August

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's portrait arrives at Baker Street and the boys rehearse with the help of Lestrade.

“Jesus! Did he have to make it life-sized?”

“Lestrade, watch that -,”

**BLAM**

“What are you boys doing up there? Was that my wall?”

“No, Mrs Hudson,” three male voices chorused untruthfully.

Their awkward struggle to haul the gargantuan packing crate up the stairs continued significantly more quietly, muffled grunts aside, until Sherlock was forced to quickly jerk one of the corners he was in charge of rather forcefully and completely unexpectedly in order to avoid bashing his knee with the corner in question.

“Ouch! Christ, that was my chin!”

“Better than my knee.”

“Heartless bastard, you are. I should drop this right now and let you haul your own bloody crate about. Why the fuck did you have it sent to my office anyway?”

“Temper, temper, Lestrade.”

“Oi! I’d like to point out that forward motion is our friend. Greg, if you abandon your post now I’ll set him on you; I’ll refuse to come along on any Met cases for the next six months. Punch him later if you like, but haul the bloody crate right now.”  
Eventually, after another of John’s toes had been smashed and Sherlock had in fact got that same troublesome corner rammed into his gut, they made it. Panting and cursing, they collapsed onto the floor for several minutes to get their collective breath back.

“’m really gonna punch you, Sherlock, soon’s I can stand.”

“Me too.”

“What? Why?” squawked Sherlock indignantly, “I didn’t bash _you_ in the chin!”

“I’m going to punch you as a stand-in for your mad uncle. What was he thinking making the damn thing so big?”

“Clearly you were very inspiring in all your shirtless glory.”

“What’s that now? Did you pose starkers, John?”

“Shirtless,” John hotly corrected.

This reminder – for Sherlock – and news – for Greg – inspired a miraculous recovery in the two men and they began dashing about the flat searching for the tools they would need to free John’s portrait from its crate.

“Pry bar, pry bar,” mused Sherlock, stopping dead to tap his finger to his pursed lips in a thoughtful manner. This method failing to provide the desired information caused him to call out, “John! Where did I last leave the pry bar?”

The party so queried groaned, still prone on the floor.

“I found a hammer in the biscuit tin,” Greg announced.

Sherlock dropped his head back dramatically and made a noise which sounded like, ‘guuuuuhhh’. “Stupid! Of course it’s in John’s laundry basket!” Gleefully, he took the stairs two at a time to fetch the pry bar from his flatmate’s bedroom.

Several splinters, lots and lots of profanity, and a flurry of straw (with all its attendant dust) later, the portrait had been loosed from the embrace of the devilish crate and its draped form was propped against the mantle. Impatiently, Sherlock shooed the other two onto the sofa and removed the drape with a flourish worthy of a long-thought-lost Stradivarius. “Ta dah!” he announced for good measure, then turned to look at the painting. Oh my, he thought, Claude had certainly outdone himself.

The painted figure of John lounged, at ease, upper back flat against the bark of a broad tree trunk; an oak for strength, Sherlock noted with approval. The leaves of the tree formed a dancing dome of worshipful autumnal colour over him. Dark denim trousers rode low on his hips, button undone; hands thrust into pockets caused the crisp red dress shirt to gape open, offering a very admirable view of his chest. His feet were bare in the green of the grass and nearby on the ground a snake curled itself round a stick to form a naturalistic Rod of Asclepius. John’s head was tipped to the side, and Sherlock imagined Claude had contemplated long and hard when deciding which expression to immortalize. That particular tip of the head could go one of only two ways. His uncle had decided against, ‘Right, come and get me then, because you’ll have to go through me,’ protective John in favour of, ‘Content, and almost dreamy with it, lazily smiling John.’ Sherlock approved the choice because this John came with a glint in his eyes born not of defensive combat but of merrily chasing through the streets of London and giggling at crime scenes; this meant that the part of John which had been born when he met Sherlock was well represented in his portrait, and also that it shone through brightly enough in real life for it to be a defining aspect of his character.

“Sexy. Dead sexy, in fact. Good show, John.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at this assessment.

John’s tone was thoughtful when he tentatively gave his opinion. “It’s – actually – not terrible, is it? I mean, of course Claude is very good, but – I’m not exactly – I wasn’t expecting to look -,”

“Impressive,” Sherlock purred. “The word you are looking for is impressive. Don’t worry, John, when you’re not standing next to me you always look quite impressive.”

“Berk.”

“Come along, as long as Lestrade is here we can rehearse the arrival scene; he can be Don Pedro to my Claudio.”

John perked up at this thought, they hadn’t had a chance to do the scene with Don Pedro and Claudio full on since he’d learned the lines. After some initial awkwardness he’d found that standing up and actually acting out the scenes with Sherlock helped a great deal, making him feel almost competent at this acting thing.

“Hang on, what are you on about my doing now? Isn’t it enough that you nearly killed me on those stairs?”

John cut in quickly, not wanting to chance their third being chased away by a tetchy Sherlockian response. “When we’ve finished I’ll take you down the pub and buy you a pint, Greg. It’s simple; all you have to do is read from the script and stand where Sherlock shoves you.”

Greg gave him a sceptical look in response, but sighed, reflecting that he didn’t exactly have anything better to do. “Fine.”

John beamed at him. “Thanks!”

So a moment later Greg found a copy of _Much Ado About Nothing_ thrust into his hands as he was pulled from the sofa and stood in the corner of the sitting room.

“Do you want to do your opening bit, Sherlock?”

“Not necessary. We’ll skip to your entrance. Now remember, don’t get overly attached to the blocking. The important thing is to get used to moving about as you say the lines.”

“Yes, got it.”

“Lestrade, you will read Don Pedro’s part and prompt John if he asks for a line. Don’t give him the entire line, just jog his memory. We’re starting on page seven with your line, ‘I think this is your daughter.’ Have you got that?”

Startled, Greg fumbled for the page. There was a bit of an introduction and he had to turn through it, but yes, there was the page and the line. “Yes, got it.”

“Good. Now, we’re all good friends and we’re having a bit of a joke together in this first bit,” Sherlock instructed. “You’re in very good humour because you’ve just come victorious from battle. You are; however, also very definitely the superior officer in the conversation, so do bring some dignity to the role if you please.”

Greg blinked. “Erm – yeah, okay. Dignity and good humour; got it.”

“Remember, you’re the Prince,” instructed Sherlock firmly.

“Riiight, I’m the Prince,” he repeated, thinking these were words he had certainly never expected to hear from the mouth of Sherlock Holmes. Vaguely he wondered if he could get him to say it again with a ‘Lestrade’ tacked on the end for surreptitious recording. ‘Accidentally’ forgetting he was the Prince could possibly provoke something along the lines of, ‘For god’s sake, Lestrade! You’re the Prince! Stop forgetting you’re Royalty for Christ’s sake!’ He then realised both John and Sherlock were staring at him expectantly. Since it was entirely possible Sherlock knew what he’d just been plotting, he slammed a poker face into place and asked, “What?” as innocently as he could.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and pointed out in a manner which he very likely considered patient but really just screamed: Imbecile!, “We’re starting with _your_ line, Lestrade. Do get better at this quite quickly.”

“Here now, who’s doing who a bloody favour by being the Prince?” He huffed out an irritated breath before looking down at his script and deliberately took his bloody time locating the line before reading out, “I think this is your daughter.” Then, remembering just in time that he was supposed to display dignity (and since he had so far failed miserably at the good humour part of his role), he fumbled the script into one hand so he could gesture grandly with the other.

Sherlock, his voice projecting as if on stage, informed him with confidence, “Her mother hath many times told me so.” He then slung an arm heartily around Greg’s shoulders and used the force of the gesture to haul him bodily a handful of steps toward the centre of the room.

Hey, he found himself thinking, hands off the Royalty! Before he could protest the manhandling aloud, though, John came in with, “Were you in doubt, sir, that you asked her?” He also spoke with his voice pitched for an audience and managed a quite creditable level of bonhomie and, well, a matey sort of feeling, with just a touch of ‘mock scandalized’.

Sherlock answered back, “Signior Benedick, no; for then were _you_ a child.” And his other arm clamped over John’s shoulders so he himself was sandwiched between the other two and squeezing them to him in a brotherly way. John and Sherlock laughed, so Greg joined in, a bit less uproariously than his fellow actors, but definitely getting into the spirit of the thing.

When the laughter died away, he waited expectantly for what came next. It turned out that what came next was Sherlock poking him in the side rather unpleasantly; then John coughing politely; then Greg recalling that he was holding a script. “Oh, damn!” Apparently this wasn’t his next line, because Sherlock poked him again and glared at him.

Greg poked him back, irritated again. “Don’t poke the Prince, you git.” He found the right spot quickly this time but took a second to remind himself he wasn’t supposed to sound tetchy. “You have it full, Benedick: we may guess by this what you are, being a man. Truly, the lady fathers herself. Be happy, lady; for you are like an honourable father.” About halfway through this he stopped understanding what he was saying, though each word remained familiar. He hoped the grandness he felt he had managed in the delivery disguised his basic incomprehension.

“If Signior Leonato be her father, she would not have his head on her shoulders for all Messina, as like him as she is,” put in John, and Greg didn’t really know what that was supposed to mean either. But certainly a daughter wouldn’t want to look too like her father, so perhaps there was some sense to be gleaned from it upon closer study.

Suddenly, Sherlock took his arms from around his companions and swept around in a half circle so he was cheated toward John but at an angle to him. His posture was completely changed. A moment ago he had been the picture of open, brotherly camaraderie and now he was suddenly all sly angles. His eyes peeked coyly out from under demurely lowered lids, though that did nothing to disguise their fiery diamond-like flash. He had also, somehow, abruptly lost half a foot in height.

“I wonder that you will still be talking, Signior Benedick: nobody marks you.”

Greg blinked. It was Sherlock’s voice – but not. It was pitched to Alto rather than Baritone and the playfulness of his tone surprised with a cutting edge, but this was then spliced with a touch of bewitching breathiness.

John struck an annoyed pose of arms crossed over his chest and regarded his friend critically. He returned just as cuttingly, “What, my dear Lady Disdain! Are you yet living?”

“Is it possible disdain should die while she hath such meet food to feed it as Signior Benedick?” Sherlock lobbed the annoyance back at him as if they were on the hallowed turf of Wimbledon. “Courtesy itself must convert to disdain, if you come in her presence.”

John emitted a sharp bark of laughter. “Then is courtesy a turncoat,” he declared. “But it is certain I am loved of all ladies, only you excepted: and I would I could find in my heart that I had not a hard heart; for, truly, I love none.”

“A dear happiness to women: they would else have been troubled with a pernicious suitor,” sniped Sherlock tetchily. He then arranged his face into his familiar ‘bored with life, the universe, everything, _and_ the bloody forty-two’ expression. “I thank God and my cold blood, I am of your humour for that: I had rather hear my dog bark at a crow than a man swear he loves me.”

“God keep your ladyship still in that mind! So some gentleman or other shall 'scape a predestinate scratched face.”

Ouch, Greg thought.

Sherlock began to circle John like a tiger lazily eyeing an easy meal. “Scratching could not make it worse, an 'twere such a face as yours were.”

John pivoted so he could keep his wary gaze firmly upon the creature stalking him. Then, he baited it. “Well, you are a rare parrot-teacher.”

The metaphorical claws practically _materialized_ to rake John’s cheek when Sherlock swiped, “A bird of my tongue is better than a beast of yours.”

With an amused tilt of his head and a low chuckle, John dispersed the massive paw back into its component thin air particles. “I would my horse had the speed of your tongue, and so good a continuer. But keep your way, i' God's name; I have done.” He laughed again, and turned to stride away.

The danger of the tiger leaping onto his back as he went was clear in Sherlock’s eyes. “You always end with a jade's trick: I know you of old.”

Greg found himself applauding.

Startled, Sherlock turned to him and then curtsied neatly. He turned to John. “That was very good, John, Lestrade is right. Well done.”

“Well, we’re getting better. Let’s go on, shall we?”

“Yes. Lestrade, you’re off stage when we start, so do listen for your cue.” He took the script from him and turned a few pages. “Right here, you can’t miss it, we refer to you by name. Now, Benedick and I are friends; you’re still the Prince and our commanding officer. I’m about to tell him that I’m in love and thinking about getting married, and he’s going to try and discourage me. You come along and take my side of the argument. Have you got it?”

“Don’t miss my cue, take your side.” At Sherlock’s expectantly raised eyebrow he rolled his eyes and added, “Not forgetting the good humour and dignity.” He was rewarded with a crisp nod and discovered he was suddenly nervous after the display he had just witnessed. Grand hand gestures no longer seemed adequate to the task.

And, indeed, to start off Sherlock yet again took on the persona of an entirely different character. His normal height was back but pointedly slouched and Greg rolled his eyes in exasperation. Well, if it wasn’t dead intimidating to watch a fellow actor simply _become a different person_ right in front of you at the drop of a hat, he didn’t know what was.

“Benedick, didst thou note the daughter of Signior Leonato?” The expectant tone Sherlock adopted matched nicely with the hopeful look he threw his partner’s way.

John replied carelessly. “I noted her not; but I looked on her.”

“Is she not a modest young lady?” wheedled Sherlock.

Clearly catching the tone, John answered the question with another. “Do you question me, as an honest man should do, for my simple true judgment; or would you have me speak after my custom, as being a professed tyrant to their sex?”

Sherlock hesitated slightly, clearly conveying he was unsure if he sought an honest opinion or not. With a firm shake of his head, he seemed to come to a decision. “No; I pray thee speak in sober judgment.”

John paused in thought; whether to call the girl in question to mind in order to formulate a response, or to consider how best to mock his friend was uncertain. “Why, in faith, methinks she's too low for a high praise, too brown for a fair praise and too little for a great praise: only this commendation I can afford her, that were she other than she is, she were unhandsome; and being no other but as she is, I do not like her.”

“Thou thinkest I am in sport: I pray thee tell me truly how thou likest her,” whinged Sherlock in response.

Clearly pleased that his teasing had hit the mark John asked, “Would you buy her, that you inquire after her?”

“Can the world buy such a jewel?” Sherlock clasped his hands together and batted his eyelashes, causing Greg to emit a snort of laughter.

As it did John. “Yea, and a case to put it into. But speak you this with a sad brow? Or do you play the flouting Jack, to tell us Cupid is a good hare-finder and Vulcan a rare carpenter? Come, in what key shall a man take you, to go in the song?”

With another bat of his eyelashes, Sherlock heaved a heavy sigh and draped himself over the sofa as if his body had just been liquefied. “In mine eye she is the sweetest lady that ever I looked on.”

John paused, and when he spoke it was in his normal tone, sans stage projection. “Laying it on a bit thick, aren’t you?”

Sherlock shot him an annoyed look. “First rule, John!” he crowed.

He rolled his eyes. “Never break character, yeah, yeah, I know. But this is easier if you’re giving me something realistic to play off.”

Sherlock shrugged. “You said it yourself, Claudio is a sap; there is only so much which can be done with the character.”

He gave in with a sigh. “All right, fine, whatever you say.”

He paused for a moment and when he resumed he did so from the diaphragm once more. “I can see yet without spectacles and I see no such matter,” he announced airily, then he scowled mightily and gestured off to the side as he declared, “There's her cousin, an she were not possessed with a fury, exceeds her as much in beauty as the first of May doth the last of December.” The scowl faded and he turned his attention back to the figure on the sofa. “But I hope you have no intent to turn husband, have you?” he demanded.

Sherlock heaved another dramatic sigh. “I would scarce trust myself, though I had sworn the contrary, if Hero would be my wife.”

In response, John threw up his arms and complained, “Is't come to this? In faith, hath not the world one man but he will wear his cap with suspicion? Shall I never see a bachelor of three-score again?” He wagged a finger in Sherlock’s face threateningly, then strode away and back as he declaimed, “Go to, i' faith; an thou wilt needs thrust thy neck into a yoke, wear the print of it and sigh away Sundays.” He then turned to regard Greg and came to a standing position once more. “Look Don Pedro is returned to seek you.”

Hastily, Greg took a step toward him. He fought the urge to clear his throat, and then read out in a clear voice, “What secret hath held you here, that you followed not to Leonato's?”

John humphed indignantly. “I would your grace would constrain me to tell.”

“I charge thee on thy allegiance,” he returned sternly, very definitely the Detective Inspector if not quite the Prince.

John turned hastily toward the languishing Sherlock and insisted, “You hear, Count Claudio: I can be secret as a dumb man; I would have you think so; but, on my allegiance, mark you this,” he emphasized very definitely, “ _on my allegiance_.” He swivelled back to Greg and with a distinct air of tattling to Father declared, “He is in love. With who? Now that is your grace's part. Mark how short his answer is;--With Hero, Leonato's short daughter.” He finished with a disgusted snort.

Dreamily from the sofa, Sherlock confirmed, “If this were so, so were it uttered.”

“Like the old tale, my lord: 'it is not so, nor 'twas not so, but, indeed, God forbid it should be so.'” Greg blinked in response because he had no idea what that had boiled down to, but luckily the next line wasn’t his.

“If my passion change not shortly, God forbid it should be otherwise.” Well, whatever they were nattering on about, Sherlock’s character was reassuringly one-note.

Heartily, Greg asserted, “Amen, if you love her; for the lady is very well worthy.” He decided this sort of thing was distinctly easier when you understood your line.

Sherlock leapt from the couch and threw his arms around Greg’s neck, hanging on him unpleasantly. “You speak this to fetch me in, my lord,” he complained in his best stroppy teenager.

Greg shook him off firmly and assured him through gritted teeth, “By my troth, I speak my thought.”

Picking himself up from the floor, Sherlock winced and returned, “And, in faith, my lord, I spoke mine.”

John snickered slightly and contributed, “And, by my two faiths and troths, my lord, I spoke mine.”

Recovering nicely, Sherlock emoted to the heavens, “That I love her, I feel.”

Greg declaimed, “That she is worthy, I know,” and threw in a grand hand gesture.

John threw his arms about and complained, “That I neither feel how she should be loved nor know how she should be worthy, is the opinion that fire cannot melt out of me: I will die in it at the stake.”

“Thou wast ever an obstinate heretic in the despite of beauty.” Greg was starting to feel he’d quite got the hang of this and he clapped John on the shoulder heartily.

“And never could maintain his part but in the force of his will.”

“That a woman conceived me, I thank her; that she brought me up, I likewise give her most humble thanks.” After this first bit John’s line went a bit pear-shaped as far as Greg’s understanding of it, but to close, the good doctor walked up to him and thumped him on the chest to emphasize each word: “I (thump) will (thump) live (thump) a bachelor (thump).” So that boiled it down nicely.

In return, he thumped him back to emphasize the end of his own line. “I shall see thee, ere I die, look pale (thump) with (thump) love (thump).”

John shook his head firmly. “With anger, with sickness, or with hunger, my lord, not with love: prove that ever I lose more blood with love than I will get again with drinking, pick out mine eyes with a ballad-maker's pen and hang me up at the door of a brothel-house for the sign of blind Cupid.”

“Well, if ever thou dost fall from this faith, thou wilt prove a notable argument.” He gave his head a rueful shake to counter John’s.

“If I do, hang me in a bottle like a cat and shoot at me; and he that hits me, let him be clapped on the shoulder, and called Adam.” Greg blinked, and wondered who the hell put a cat in a bottle on a regular enough basis that it became a thing you referenced.

Warily, he replied, “Well, as time shall try: 'In time the savage bull doth bear the yoke.'”

“The savage bull may; but if ever the sensible Benedick bear it, pluck off the bull's horns and set them in my forehead: and let me be vilely painted, and in such great letters as they write 'Here is good horse to hire,' let them signify under my sign 'Here you may see Benedick the married man.'” The visual danced right into Greg’s head of its own accord; John with horns on his forehead, covered in colourful paints and slumping drunkenly over his sign. He grinned, amused.

Sherlock giggled. “If this should ever happen, thou wouldst be horn-mad.”

“Nay, if Cupid have not spent all his quiver in Venice, thou wilt quake for this shortly,” warned Greg.

“I look for an earthquake too, then,” John snorted in response.

They seemed to be nearing the end of the scene, because Greg’s next line was meant to send John away rather than continue on with the banter and, indeed, after just a little more back and forth they were done. When each of the other men abruptly resumed his proper posture and they grinned at one another, Greg let himself go a bit limp as well; he found he’d been holding himself rather stiffly through all this. Perhaps stiffness made it easier to fancy oneself a Prince.

“That was very good, John, very good indeed. I do think you need a bit more exasperation throughout, really chew some scenery,” Sherlock encouraged, then shot a sidelong glance at Greg. “Care to go again, Lestrade?”

One look at John’s eager face decided him, god help him. He sighed heavily and began turning pages back. “Fine, but you’re buying me a bottle of whisky, John. This being the Prince bit isn’t easy, you know; and don’t forget that you nearly killed me on the stairs first.”

Later, down the pub, Greg sipped at his whisky worshipfully and regarded his friend with an amused eye. “Now what the bloody hell was all that about?”

John laughed. “What, you mean when we took a beating from a packing crate or the bit where we all three of us acted out Shakespeare in the living room?”

“Well, what I’d really like you to explain is why Sherlock broke into what I assume is an aria during the Shakespeare, but I’ll settle for an explanation for the acting and why you’re so keen on it. Is this a secret hobby of yours?”

“No, god no. I’m just keen not to look a complete and utter arse, and where acting is concerned Sherlock is the best bloody tutor you could ask for.”

“But what theatre cast you as Benedick? This isn’t the sort of thing that happens by accident, you know. You’d have to audition for starters.”

“Greg, you wouldn’t bloody believe me if I told you.”

Greg leaned back and challenged, “Try me.”

So John took a deep breath and told him. He told him about the sprawling house in the country and dressing for dinner; he told him about Grandmother, who was so very tiny but could move men with the power of her will alone; he told him about how Peter could get a wild deer to eat out of his hand, and how Richard was useful in a crisis, and how Not Anthea was both a lot of fun and a lot of trouble to be around; he told him about the painter and the composer who were quite cosy in their vine-covered cottage and merrily sniped at each other as they created beautiful things all day long; he told him about how Sherlock had magically tutored children into understanding how a bird’s wings work and how Mycroft was training up the next generation to rule the world. After a few more drinks he told him about Sherlock’s parents, and Greg’s eyes both lightened in understanding and gained a hard glint that was a twin to the one in his own; he told him that Sherlock and Mycroft had once agreed on something and that they’d had a puppy named Plutarch; and then he invited him to spend his Christmas with the Holmeses.

“You did what?”

John groaned. “Look, I’m sorry.” He rubbed circles on his temple with a thumb. “After half a bottle of whisky it somehow made sense.”

Sherlock snorted with laughter and placed a steaming mug of tea in front of his suffering flatmate. “It doesn’t matter to me, John. I’m not angry, but I can’t understand why you’re adding to your audience when you’re still so apprehensive about your skill as an actor; which is considerable and growing, by the way. I was really quite pleased with the outcome of yesterday’s work.”

The application of tea and the praise worked together quite effectively at improving John’s mood. He fished out the teabag and sipped at the still-too-hot liquid tentatively. “Well, I’m getting better,” he conceded. Secretly (though not really as there were never any secrets in the same room as Sherlock) he acknowledged that he was quite pleased with his own progress.


	9. September

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The lads run into a spot of trouble. John is forced to improvise.

“You are absolutely not allowed to die on me, Sherlock. I refuse to play Benedick opposite anyone else.”

“Christ, John, I can hardly die with my doctor right beside me; unless you’re changing your own verdict and admitting to incompetence in that area?”

It was a decent attempt at condescending if not witty, but John could hear the pain in his partner’s voice and his worry ratcheted up a notch. A doctor he may have been, but they were stranded God knows where in the middle of the Scottish Highlands, they were on foot, it was swiftly getting dark, the temperature was already turning chill, and Sherlock was bleeding like a stuck pig. There wasn’t much even a very good doctor experienced in dealing with battlefield conditions could do in their present circumstances. He wasn’t even happy allowing Sherlock to move, but leaving him lying on the ground applying pressure to his wound as he slowly bled to death didn’t seem a truly viable fucking alternative.

So they were laboriously making their way in the direction of the last sliver of setting sun, because that was their only accurate clue to which direction they were moving. Sherlock’s right arm was slung across John’s shoulders and John’s left arm was wrapped around his friend’s waist, both so that he could help by taking even more of Sherlock’s weight and so that he could apply pressure to what was left of his shirt, the bulk of which had been fashioned into a pad and secured over Sherlock’s wound with what had once been its sleeves. It was an awkward angle, but short of slinging the taller man over his shoulder (an option which he had not officially taken off the table) it was the best they could manage.

John’s mind wouldn’t stop suggesting things he needed to start carrying around with him in case they were going to be finding themselves in this sort of situation more regularly: gaffer tape, an extra shirt, his actual medical bag, a compass, a lighter, a pint or two of AB negative, some heavy-duty antibiotics, a backup phone for when his and Sherlock’s had been confiscated by the thugs and smashed to pieces – John looked up, because he had just felt – fuck, he thought; yeah, he had just felt a drop – an umbrella (alternately Mycroft), two pairs of wellies, and (because, what the hell, how about an) x-ray machine. At that point he made himself stop thinking along that line and concentrated on scanning the distance for any sort of structure while he still had a little bit of light to work with.

He decided that there might be something dead ahead which he couldn’t get a good look at since the last bit of sun was likewise dead ahead. He told himself that there must be, and for good measure said, “I think there’s something up ahead.” He crossed his fingers that a snug little cottage with a telephone line and a resident nurse had suddenly popped into existence as a consequence of his uttering the words aloud.

Sherlock made a grunting sound, but the odds were that it had been because John had jarred his injury rather than being representative of his opinion on the possibility shelter might be within reach.

Grimly, John soldiered on as the single drop turned into a handful and then a drenching curtain. Once the sun had gone down completely he kept on walking, hoping like hell he was still moving in a straight line.

In the end it didn’t matter because whether or not they’d travelled in a straight line because eventually, there it was: a cottage that, as far as he could tell, could very well prove cosy. Relieved beyond measure, he hauled Sherlock the last few steps up the walk and gently propped him against the face of the cottage. He rang the bell; it was one of the old-fashioned sort and as he twisted the lever he could hear it chime inside. As he waited for a response, he marshalled his resources and did what he could to take in the lay of the land.

John Watson was a very competent man. He was a doctor and he had been a soldier. He had spent years living at the side of Sherlock Holmes and had accordingly seen the battlefield. All his experience and skills now allowed him to determine, despite the dark, that they were in the middle of fucking nowhere. Also, no one was coming to open the door for them.

John Watson wasn’t used to giving in to panic, but as he rang the bell again and then employed the knocker for good measure a small part of him actually did simply flip the fuck out. He decided that if no one was there he’d break into the place without qualm, but the portion of his brain which wasn’t panicking knew he’d better make damn sure there was no one at home first. A handful more rings and some energetic pounding later, he was satisfied.

He took a step back and looked at the place again, this time with a view to tactics. Break a window?

Suddenly, though, Sherlock was on his knees in front of him. At first he was afraid his friend had collapsed from the blood loss and John followed him down. He found him not losing consciousness, but instead employing his lock picks. Since this required two hands, John automatically lent him a third and used it to resume the pressure on his wound. He wondered how the hell Sherlock had retained this tool through the otherwise thorough confiscation of their possessions.

John took the moment of close contact to assess his patient’s condition. Breathing: laboured. Face: drawn and pale. Pulse: fluttery. Conclusion: worrisome. Still, he was clearly following events perfectly well, so that was something. It was also encouraging that John found his pulse-taking hand shrugged off by a gesture pregnant with irritation. It was, however, not encouraging that the swinging open of the door was followed by the admission, “I need you to help me up.”

Carefully, John did this, and together they staggered into a room which presented their irises with a new and exciting degree of darkness but did not prove, unfortunately in that moment, to be empty of furniture. “Bollocks on toast!” John exclaimed when he barked his shin hard on something.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Sherlock critiqued weakly. “You definitely wouldn’t eat that.”

“And yet somehow it made me feel better for a fleeting instant, which would be the entire point of profanity. Look, can you stand for a second on your own?”

“Probably.”

John tried not to get even more worried, but failed. He decided that panic was really not something he handled well and made a mental note to avoid it in future. He reluctantly released Sherlock and flailed about a bit until he found a wall. “Here, lean here while I stumble round.” He guided him over to his new find and placed his free hand on it. The fact that Sherlock sank down the wall instead of using it to prop himself up ratcheted his concern yet another level higher.

His eyes were adjusting to the near-full dark now and he could make out the shapes of the furniture well enough to avoid additional bruises. Unfortunately, the light switches he found yielded no actual light. “Fuck.” That meant that the telephone probably wasn’t going to work either. He spent a few precious moments bumping around the room before finding the instrument in question and confirming there was no dialing tone. “Double blustering fuck. Where do people keep candles?” he demanded.

The response was not as irritated as it should have been. “Why would I know that?”

Worried and bordering on frantic now, John waved his hands around in distress without realizing he was doing so. Sherlock did not, unfortunately, have his eyes open so he missed the entertaining visual. He was, however, still able to be vaguely amused by the verbal accompaniment. “You know things, Sherlock, strange things that I have no idea why you’ve retained. It’s not just the creepy knowing things about everyone you lay eyes on, it’s that you know how people act even when you haven’t laid eyes on them.” Even knowing it was irrational, he repeated himself, “So where do people keep their bloody candles? I don’t have time to be wasting while you’re still bleeding.”

“Sorry, no idea.”

It was the ‘sorry’ that sent John over the edge from calmly panicking to frenzied. He stormed out of the room and began rooting around in the kitchen cabinets, banging into things as he went and not even bothering to curse about any of it.

His doctorly lizard brain still seemed to be in working order, though, because when he’d finished ransacking the kitchen he had almost unconsciously set aside a box of matches, a torch with dead batteries, and a pair of scissors. He decided to suspend the search for a light source and sought out the loo instead. Luckily, his ransacking there yielded an ancient bottle of rubbing alcohol and some slightly less ancient gauze pads which were still in sealed packets; this made him feel quite a bit better. What he really needed now was a needle and thread - as well as light to work by - right. “Fuck. Fuck fucketty buggering fuck.”

He added his new finds to the motley pile of treasure which was accumulating next to Sherlock, then stormed out to the garage. There, he realized that some kindly God who looked out for idiot flatmates who continually insisted on jumping into the line of fire had smiled upon him in his hour of need. Not only did he find an industrial-sized box chock full of lovely large emergency candles, but also two more boxes of matches, some batteries which would fit the torch, as well as (wonder of wonders) a tackle box full of fishing line and nice pointy hooks, at least one of which he hoped would prove free of rust.

Back in the living room, John was immediately disappointed when the batteries proved to be dead; no torch, then. He worked as quickly as he could, lighting a significant number of candles and managing to light the area around the sofa with a glow which clearly illuminated the space. He burned each finger at least twice and during the process had resumed a steady stream of profanity which Sherlock himself was just able to appreciate despite the pain; it helped, actually, to have something else to focus on.

Finally - Finally! So much bloody time wasted! - John eased Sherlock back up, telling him, “Well, the good news is that if you were bleeding internally you’d probably already be dead.” This wasn’t strictly the entire truth, but he was really hoping it would prove true, and it honestly was the only cheerful thing he could think to say. Conveniently, Sherlock was too tall for the sofa so he propped his feet up on the arm. It was a little late to start trying to prevent shock, but it was also habit; now that he had supplies and some light the more routine things which needed to be done could come to the fore. Accordingly, he took another precious moment to shred the flaps of the cardboard box which held the remaining candles in the hope of ending up with a fire. The candlelight had revealed logs already laid in the hearth and he did what he could to encourage them to burn.

“Right. Let’s have a look, then.”

Sherlock knew it would be childish, downright churlish in fact, to complain. It was his fault they were in this situation and he was quite lucky to have landed in it with a doctor who actually had some chance of putting things right. But he was freezing cold, his body was suffused with pain, and he really just wanted to be left alone. John’s ‘having a look’ was bound to change the pain from throbbing to sharp and there seemed no hope at all that he would somehow magically become dry, warm, and transported home to Baker Street. Then again, seeming childish was usually not a deterrent to Sherlock. “I’m cold.”

John sighed. “I know, I’m sorry, I’m hoping the fire will help after a bit.”

“It hurts.”

“God, Sherlock, I know, I’m so sorry.” He paused then said regretfully, “It’s going to hurt more before I’m done.”

Fabulous. He’d been both childish and churlish and it hadn’t got him anything. Some days Sherlock despised being alive. A giddy inner voice assured him that soon, that might no longer be a problem.

John was removing the makeshift bandage; the shock of cold that hit his wound as a consequence made him grit his teeth and he could hear his own indrawn breath hiss in the quiet of the long-abandoned room.

“Lady Beatrice, have you wept all this while?”

An astonished bark of laughter escaped Sherlock, and he cringed at the pain the jarring caused. “This is hardly the moment for running lines, John.”

More firmly, his trusty physician and lately Benedick prompted again, “Lady Beatrice, have you wept all this while?”

Oh, what the bloody hell he thought, at least the response was appropriate. “Yea, and I will weep a while longer.”

“I will not desire that.”

“You could stop,” another hissing breath in response to whatever he was doing down there, “poking around then and just leave me be.”

“It’s actually better than I’d expected. Somewhere along the way the bleeding mostly stopped; you’re only oozing now. I’ll still have to stitch it, though. Keep going: I will not desire that.”

Sherlock bit back what might have been either a groan or a curse if it had been given voice. Instead he swallowed hard and kept going. “You have no reason; I do it freely.”

“Surely I do believe your fair cousin is wronged.”

“Ah, how much might the man deserve of me that would right her.”

“Is there any way to show such friendship?” John’s voice was gentle and sincere and it suddenly made Sherlock want to weep in truth. He had no idea what he’d ever done to deserve a friend, no, a brother so steadfast as Dr John Watson; in fact he suspected he didn’t deserve him at all.

Then he felt the needle go in. Sherlock bit back a cry.

“Is there any way to show such friendship?”

He focused on John’s voice, the tone even but with an underlying thread of tension. His own was ragged when he suggested, “A very even way, but no such friend.”

“May a man do it?”

“The very best of men,” Sherlock breathed. “John -,”

“First rule, Sherlock.”

“Never break character,” he murmured, “but we’re just running lines.”

“May a man do it?”

“It is a man's office, but not yours.”

“I do love nothing in the world so well as you: is not that strange?” John snorted, amused for a split second. “Jesus, strange doesn’t even _begin_ to cover it.”

Sherlock sucked in a ragged breath and insisted to himself it was just transport. “As strange as the thing I know not. It were as possible for me to say I loved nothing so well as you: but - _AH!_ ”

“All right, you’re all right. I’m sorry, Sherlock, I’m so sorry for all of this.”

“Not your fault,” he grit out and forced himself to continue, “believe me not; and yet I lie not; I confess nothing, nor I deny nothing. I am sorry for my cousin.” His delivery had been terrible, but he’d got the line right. They were just running lines.

“By my sword, Beatrice, thou lovest me.”

John was trying hard to maintain his calm and soothing tone, but there was a waver there. Sherlock summoned everything he had left. “I lovest you much more when you are making me tea.”

His doctor made a sound which would have been a chuckle under other circumstances. “By my sword, Beatrice, thou lovest me when I am making you tea.”

“Do not swear, and eat it.”

“I will swear by it that you love me, at least when I’m making you tea rather than stitching you up without a local; and I will make him eat it that says I love not you.”  
Calm and soothing was firmly back in place now, and Sherlock took strength from it. “Will you not eat your word?”

“Honestly, what is it with all the eating of words in this play? With no sauce that can be devised to it. I protest I love thee.”

“Why, then, God forgive me.”

“What offence, sweet Beatrice? That was the last one,” he added softly, “I’m just finishing up now.”

Sherlock sighed in relief, “You have stayed me in a happy hour.” He carefully pulled in a new breath. “I was about to protest I loved you.”

“And the audience cheers.”

Sherlock snorted.

“And do it with all thy heart.”

“I love you with so much of my heart that none is left to protest.” Sherlock hoped John knew that he meant that. He thought he probably did.

“Come, bid me do any thing for thee.”

“Kill Claudio.”

“Already ticked that box with the cabbie. Next?”

Dog my every step, pick up the pieces which I think aren’t important but will need later, reflect my genius back to me so that I can see clearly, reassure me that you and Baker Street are my home, patch me up physically using chewing gum and a tea towel if need be, and don’t forget to hand me my phone. Oh, Sherlock didn’t ask for much, really, just the moon, stars, and a box to keep them in; he knew it too.

He opened his eyes and looked at John. His partner was soaking wet and shivering, stripped even of the slight protection his shirt might have given him. He was pale and drawn with exhaustion, but his eyes were clear; there was deep concern there, yes, but it was born of the affection which shone through even in this extremity. He took in the rest of the scene; the candles and the mismatched set of tools Dr Watson had accumulated in his profanity-fuelled search.

“I think managing to save my life and improvising stitches from the contents of a tackle box will serve quite nicely.”

“Ha! not for the wide world. Go on, ask for something else while I’m feeling sorry for you.”

“God, I’d love a cigarette.”

John glanced around ruefully. “Sorry, I’m pretty sure even if I found some here you wouldn’t want them.”

“You kill me to deny it. Farewell.” Because the thought that he would be able to move under his own power was funny, he frivolously waved his hand about to help convey the hilarity of it all.

“Tarry, sweet Beatrice.” There was just a hint of laughter in John’s voice.

“I am gone, though I am here,” Sherlock insisted, “there is no love in you: nay, I pray you, let me go.”

John rose and moved over to check the status of their fire. “Beatrice -,”

“In faith, I will go,” Sherlock insisted from his prone position on the sofa.

John employed the heavy poker which had stood sentinel on the hearth for who knew how long. “We'll be friends first.” His delivery was appropriately dry considering their history.

“You dare easier be friends with me than fight with mine enemy.”

“Tarry, good Beatrice. By this hand, I love thee.”

Sherlock raised his head to look at his partner, curiosity winning out over his pain-management strategy of lying as still as possible. “You just skipped about four pages.”

John shrugged, now beginning to prowl round the room, taking stock of its contents. “Your physician advises you to save your breath for breathing instead of wasting it wishing you were a man so you could eat Claudio’s heart in the marketplace.”

“Grandmother would not approve.”

“She’ll approve my keeping you alive to play the part.”

“Hm. Use it for my love some other way than swearing by it.

“Think you in your soul the Count Claudio hath wronged Hero?”

“Yea, as sure as I have a thought or a soul.”

“Enough, I am engaged. Ah ha!” John strode over to the sofa and covered his partner with the blanket he had just found, tucking it snugly around him. Sherlock almost protested that he should keep it for himself, but knew it would be a waste of breath. “I will challenge him. I will kiss your hand, and so I leave you. I’m going to get you some water.” He recited the rest of the line with a bit more volume so he could be heard from the kitchen. “By this hand, Claudio shall render me a dear account. As you hear of me, so think of me. Go, comfort your cousin: I must say she is dead: and so, farewell.”

“Find yourself a shirt or something.”

“What,” he called over the sound of the running water which had thankfully proved more congenial than the electricity and telephone service, “you’re offended by my ill-defined pectoral muscles? Or threatened, maybe?”

“I’m offended by the fact that you’re shivering.”

“I’m going to have to find some rain gear. Or something plastic at least.”

Sherlock frowned. “Why?”

“Why do you think, genius?” He sat on the edge of the sofa and helped Sherlock sip from the glass. “We need to ring Mycroft or Lestrade, or possibly both; we have to find someone who can tell us where the hell we are so one of them can come fetch us.”

“You aren’t going out into the rain in the dark when we have no idea where we are,” Sherlock stated flatly.

John just grinned. He put the water aside and stood. “Sounds like something mad that you might do, doesn’t it? Don’t worry, I’m not nicking your act; but seriously, I want you in hospital sooner rather than later. You need antibiotics and a transfusion; proper stitches wouldn’t go amiss either.”

Sherlock frowned and did something he truly hated doing; he repeated himself. “You are not going out into the rain to wander around in the dark on your own.”

He sighed. “I can’t just sit here doing nothing and thinking about the bacteria attacking your body. At least if I’m out looking for help I’m doing something.”

“Must I say it a third time?”

“Sherlock, you could still die as a consequence of this wound, and if you do I’m not going to be able to live with myself knowing I didn’t go wandering through the dark and the rain and the cold like a bloody loon!”

“Wait until sunrise. It doesn’t make any sense at all for you to go now.”

John made himself take a breath. Sherlock was right, of course. That didn’t stop him wanting to set out immediately instead of waiting. “I know it’s stupid, I just feel as if I need to do _something_.”

Sherlock racked his brain. “I’m still cold,” he blurted out finally because it was the truth. Belatedly, he realized that had been brilliant of him. “You need to stay and keep me warm,” he concluded with deeply smug satisfaction.

John stood, hands on hips, staring at Sherlock for a moment. His mouth quirked up into a smile. “You’re actually telling me that you want me to keep you warm with my own body heat, aren’t you?”

His partner would have shrugged if it would have been worth the resulting pain. “It seems the most sensible course of action.”

John’s smile widened and he dropped his head, shaking it in disbelief. “My life just continues to get more ridiculous. Honestly, who does something like that outside the telly?”

“I believe some lesser authors are not above employing the trope.”

“Oh right, I live within the pages of a Mills and Boon paperback now. Of course, I’d completely forgotten. Honestly, we might as well actually get married. I’ll be back in a tick.” He turned and walked toward the front door.

“Where are you going?” Sherlock said, alarmed. He had made a valid point, blast it!

John didn’t stop walking, but said, “I’m just going to look for a wood box. We could use some more dry logs if there are any to be found.”

And when he came back he had dry wood as well as another blanket and a pillow, both of which smelled musty, but the entire cottage smelled musty so that didn’t much matter. He added the latter two items to the sofa already containing Sherlock and the first blanket. He then poked things around a bit in the fireplace and added some of the new logs. He thought the room was finally starting to feel warmer.

“John?”

“Coming. Just coming.”


	10. October

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock throws a wobbly. This results in birds. ... Yeah. Birds.

Sherlock was, extremely thoughtfully mind you, making tea. He reached up for the box of tea bags and a sharp stab of pain from his presumably not-entirely-healed wound caused him to make a small noise. A small noise, it should be noted. John, however, apparently had the hearing of – well – something that could hear extraordinarily well; a dog, perhaps? Definitely an entry worthy of deletion until this moment.

In any case, Sherlock abruptly found himself no longer extremely thoughtfully making tea but sat down and fussed at.

It felt as if John had been fussing at him for _days on end_.

***

Sherlock was fine.

Sherlock was perfectly fine.

The fact that Sherlock was perfectly fine was apparently a point of contention within the confines of 221B at the moment.

But _Sherlock was perfectly fine: please, thank you very much, and full stop_.

He knew this was true because: He was Sherlock; he was the one who knew he was fine; he was always right; therefore he was fine.

It had been simply _ages_ since that tedious incident when he had got himself injured.

He was perfectly fine.

He absolutely didn’t need a cup of tea.

He refused to demand one because he didn’t need one.

He was fine.

Sherlock was perfectly fine.

…

All right maybe – just maybe, mind you, and only when he reached up to get something on the very highest shelf (why on earth was the tea on the highest shelf anyway?) – he was still in a bit of pain.

Just a very little bit.

Nothing to worry about.

Nothing at all.

It was just transport.

***

“No.”

“But -,”

“No.”

“John -,”

“I am your doctor. Deal with it. You are not going anywhere.”

-

And that was when Sherlock threw the wobbly to end all wobblies.

-

The aftermath was - well - epic.

-

John surveyed the sitting room which he had once considered a space they – well, all right, he – could expect a civilized human being to consider he or she was willing to occupy without demanding monetary compensation for doing so.

He was now forced to re-evaluate that opinion.

***

John decided to make tea.

Making tea and drinking tea had a long history of sorting things out. So far it hadn’t helped the current situation (and he had been making quite a lot of tea just recently) but he was English and he was supposed to keep calm and follow that up with various steadfast sorts of things as he maintained a stiff upper lip etcetera.

So he did.

He then took it one step further and made tea for two.

He did this even though one of the main platform points of the recent wobbly had been that Sherlock very much _did not require tea_.

“So what’s actually bothering you? Because I know it isn’t this year’s Eurovision upset as you so passionately claimed it was yesterday.”

Sherlock eyed the tea warily. It looked extremely wonderful. He wondered if drinking it would make it obligatory for him to _behave_. This existence which he maintained since his return to Baker Street and John so often seemed to involve his _behaving_. And perhaps, too, this new John was still so very relieved to have Sherlock returned to him (This bear belongs to:  Dr John Hamish Watson. Please return to: 221B Baker Street, London if found. **Reward offered**.) that he was reduced more often to smiling fondly than to shouting about body parts in the fridge.

And maybe Sherlock had actually counted on the shouting.

Just a bit.

“You didn’t actually think Lestrade’s case was interesting. You just want to run around London and pop yet another stitch.”

Because the shouting meant that John was still there. It meant he was choosing to stay despite the fact that he periodically felt moved to shout about the pancreas in the fridge and the Batrachotoxin next to the tea bags.

“Though yesterday’s performance wasn’t much better as far as alternatives go.”

And at least Sherlock _heard_ the shouting. Sometimes it was difficult to hear things over the hum of his own thoughts.

“Not talking? All right. Fine. I’m going out then.”

The flat was quiet.

And the tea was cold.

***

While John was gone it rained.

The sky over London opened up and matched Sherlock Holmes’s temper tantrum howl for howl and whirlwind for whirlwind. The driving rain battered the great city and its timeless structures as if trying to reduce all of it to rubble.

***

John sat out the thunderstorm in a pub realigning his patience over a pint of bitter. He then walked home through the stillness which was the ten or so minutes before birds will begin to sing again after a hard rain.

He opened the door of 221, called out a cheery, “Afternoon, Mrs H.”, and mounted the steps, determined to put the flat to rights and ignore Sherlock completely. If he wanted to be in an epic strop that was perfectly fine, but it didn’t mean that John had to join him or live like some sort of refugee trapped in a bombed-out village for the duration.

He crossed their threshold and a parrot; vibrant red, blue, yellow, and green; larger than his head, swooped through the air before him.

John stopped dead and looked around him incredulously.

The sitting room had been filled with birds of every colour, shape and size. Some perched, others hopped, a number pecked at the furniture and the various belongings of the resident humans which lay scattered about, a very few were engaging in short flights from one surface to another. 

Several free-floating feathers wafted gently through the air, whimsically making their way toward the floor.

Sherlock sat in the midst of it all, appearing completely unconcerned, reading a book.

“Sherlock?”

“Hm?”

“There are birds. In the flat.”

“Oh, well spotted, John.”

“Birds. Inside our flat.”

There was no response.

“Birds that belong in the rain forest or the zoo, or even just outside the flat, are _inside our flat_!”

Still nothing.

“Dozens and _dozens_ of _birds_ that were not in our flat when I left it an hour ago are now _inside_ our flat!”

“I believe there should prove to be an even hundred, actually.”

“You are spectacularly ignoring my point! _Why_ are there _birds_ in the _flat_?”

“I needed them.”

“You _needed_ them?! What did you need them _for_?”

“A case,” he said vaguely.

“You don’t _have_ a case!”

“Hm.”

“Sherlock! You cannot be serious! Even you cannot - ! Oi! Over the course of the last week you have sulked and sniped at me, laid waste to the sitting room, and now you have somehow, _impossibly_ , filled this room with birds! BIRDS!!”

“Hm.”

“Sherlock! Pay attention when I’m shouting at you! What are we going to do with them all?! Couldn’t you at least have conjured up some cages to -,” John abruptly stopped mid-shout and sniffed the air suspiciously. “Is that – is that smoke?! Jesus! Tell me you haven’t blown up another – Christ! You have, haven’t you?” he accused hotly as he strode into the kitchen to investigate. “You’ve blown up the new blender already – oh my – Jesus _bloody_ Christ!! _More_ bloody birds?! Seriously, Sherlock, what the bloody, _fucking_ hell!?!”

Sherlock smiled serenely and brushed absently at a blue tit when its flight path veered close enough to his ear that he felt the tip of its wing ghost across his skin.


	11. November

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock _had_ assured John that there would be a dance lesson...he hadn't advised him there would also be an impromptu party beforehand.

Hugh Stewart in his excellent booklet “Elements of English Country Dance” says: “Give weight: This is a common (despairing) cry”. Some people never seem to come to terms with it. If you're in a square set and you circle left, the men's hands are underneath and the ladies' hands are on top. The men push upwards and the ladies push downwards, so that there's some tension in your arms — you can actually feel that there's someone there. It's not an affectation; it's not something that you do because it looks pretty — it's sheer mechanics. It enables you to apply a force to the other person and thereby move them — while they're doing the same to you. The way to get a good circle (walked or slipped) is that you all give a slight pull to the person behind you. Try it. - colinhume.com

***

John frowned at the schedule because it was suddenly claiming that he had plans for that evening (right this moment, in fact) which it hadn’t done just that morning when he had checked it and it had instructed him to hand Sherlock his phone, a pickaxe and _if he could find one_ , (a very rare qualification where his flatmate was concerned) a rubber stamp bearing the legend ‘Excellent!’. It had taken a stab at relating these instructions to their participation in the Production by tacking on the statement: Grandmother requested I ring her.

Even more alarming was the fact that the late-breaking activity was labelled: Dance Lesson. His first instinct was to go directly upstairs and pack a few things into a bag. A weekend in Dublin seemed an ‘Excellent!’ alternative. This action was forestalled by the ringing of the doorbell.

The newly arrived visitor proved to be Sarah.

“Hello!”

She bore a party plate from Wasabi.

“Hi. Um – don’t take this the wrong way because I’m always happy to see you, but what are you doing here? And why have you brought food?”

“Sherlock’s text said to wear comfortable shoes and bring snacks. He really should give people more notice if he wants free food.”

“Sherlock texted you?”

She smiled and her eyes sparkled as she pushed past him into the hall. He automatically shut the door behind her. “As attractive as you are John, I didn’t spontaneously decide to drop by and rekindle our romance over sashimi. I’m intelligent enough to know that when Sherlock Holmes decides munchies are in order whatever follows is bound to be entertaining.” She paused on the stairs and turned to grin down at him. “Possibly explosive, of course, but entertaining nonetheless. I’ll just put this in the fridge for now.”

“Oh, um, careful of the…” John trailed off because he wasn’t entirely sure what was currently in the fridge. “Erm, everything, I suppose,” he finally decided on.

Before he had time to start up after her, the bell rang again.

It was Greg.

“I brought beer.”

“Oh thank God. Come on in.”

Next Mrs Hudson came up bearing a plate of ginger biscuits.

“Isn’t this nice, I was so surprised when Sherlock said he’d decided to throw a little party!”

And then Molly arrived.

“John, hello! I’ve brought Doritos and dips, I hope that’s all right. Sherlock didn’t really give us much notice.”

Close on her heels a non-descript black car glided to a halt at the kerb in front of 221. The usual suspects emerged a moment later.

“Good evening, John. Lovely weather we’re having.”

“Steed.”

*tappetty tappetty tappetty*

“Peel.”

John surveyed the (now quite full) sitting room of the flat with bemusement as he sipped a beer. Mycroft and Not Anthea seemed to have somehow magicked up a half dozen bottles of wine and a profusion of Chinese takeaway when John’s back had been turned, so everyone was eating and drinking and chatting; basically they were all having a jolly good time. None of them seemed terribly surprised or disappointed that Sherlock wasn’t actually in attendance at the impromptu party to which he had invited all of them.

To be fair, John wasn’t all that surprised either. Aside from the fact he was already plotting how best to get his flatmate to at least help with the washing up which now lay ahead, he was simply curious about when Sherlock was going to show up and what was going to happen when he did. This all somehow had to be connected to the Dance Lesson which had affixed itself to the schedule so unexpectedly. Despite Sherlock’s occasional abuse of it the schedule was always strictly adhered to when it came to matters which were actually Production-related. Why his Beatrice wanted an audience for the lesson, or alternately planned to give all their friends a group lesson was the real mystery.

Things got a bit noisy once there was more conversing than eating going on, but John couldn’t quite settle so he drifted from one conversation to another. Despite the volume he easily detected the sounds of yet more people arriving downstairs; there was quite a lot of fuss and bother drifting up the stairs. John decided against adding to it by offering to assist but he did position himself in such a way that he had a good view of the doorway.

When they arrived, they did so in a whirlwind of hats and light coats, chatter in both French and English, some sort of _equipment_ , and all the elegant drama which just seemed to enjoy trailing after members of the Holmes family.

From the midst of all this emerged tiny, fragile-seeming Grandmother Holmes. “My Benedick! Have you missed us terribly? You really should visit more often.”

John found himself being tugged down for a kiss on his cheek and a firm, no-nonsense but comforting embrace.

Grandmere was right on her heels, she squeezed him to her and whispered in his ear, “Sherlock chattered on for the entire journey. I’ve never seen him so happy.” She only released him after she had bestowed twin kisses on his cheeks and he was blushing a fiery red.

Claude laughed heartily and pulled him into a third hug. “Don’t let her fluster you so soon, John. We have a long way to go this evening.” He then apparently caught sight of John’s portrait (which, after its momentous arrival, had been propped in the corner of the room and mostly forgotten about) and frowned. He turned back to his nephew. “Sherlock, why haven’t you _hung_ the painting?”

Sherlock, who was attempting to do something with (or possibly to) whatever equipment had been brought along (which John could now see included a keyboard, Lord help him) and was looking put out over the fact that it was resisting his efforts quite strenuously. His response was accordingly tetchy. “What difference does it make? You can _see_ it can’t you?”

“Paintings are not meant to be propped against walls, Sherlock,” was the firm response. “And what’s more, I sent it ready to be hung. All you need do is put a pair of nails in the wall; nothing could be easier. John, I’ll need a hammer.”

“Erm …” Locating any particular object within the confines of 221B could be a real study in frustration. Sherlock was better at it than John; he seemed to have some sort of radar or sixth sense which, in some instances, allowed him to hover uncertainly for a minute or two before homing in on the fact that the remote control had somehow ended up in the toaster oven again.

Mrs Hudson, who was keenly aware of her boys’ propensity to scatter their belongings to the winds on a regular basis, tutted just a touch chidingly. “Never mind, John, I’ll just fetch mine. It will be much quicker.”

Grateful for the save, John introduced her to Claude and the pair of them set off down the stairs together. Sherlock’s grandmothers had inserted themselves seamlessly into the rest of the party. Grandmere was sipping a glass of red wine and patting Molly’s knee whilst Grandmother was regaling Greg with a story accompanied by grand arm gestures. From the look on Greg’s face John could tell that he hadn’t fully believed his tale of the Holmes family until just now.

“John.” He turned to Sarah, who sounded amused. He found her crouched down to put herself at eye-level with Portrait John. “This is fabulous. I want to tease you about it but I really just like it a lot; it’s a wonderful likeness.”

He blushed again. “Thanks. It’s a little odd; I mean, who has their portrait painted these days?”

She smiled up at him. “Because the boys of Baker Street are so famously conventional?”

John reached for her hand and tugged her to standing. “Ha, ha. I seem to recall you charging a man in an attempt to drive a spear through him once upon a time. And on our first date!” he added in a scandalised tone. “You were lucky to get a second after that.”

“If you could find an actually murderous girlfriend Sherlock might find her interesting enough to share you with her.”

“Never going to happen. I’ve basically accepted it. I’m happy enough with the mad bastard as things stand.”

From across the room, Sherlock announced, “The keyboard is now in working order.”

“And it’s a good thing too, since I think we’re about to dance around our sitting room for the amusement of most of our friends and relatives.”

Sarah’s eyebrows shot up and she grinned an evil grin. “Oh, I knew this was going to be good. Don’t tease me; is that really why we’re here?”

John sighed. “I’m fairly certain, yes. You’re a horrible person, by the way,” he added mildly.

Her grin widened. “Possibly this is even better than the trip to Waitrose.”

He considered that. “The Waitrose thing actually turned out really well in the end. The online shopping has been terrific.” He frowned a little. “With the exception of the caviar incident.” After another pause for thought he added, “And that time we ended up with all the cheese.”

“You can never have too much cheese.”

“After eating my way through approximately 87 pounds of gouda I have to disagree with you on that. At least if it hadn’t been one huge round we could have tried to give some of it away.”

“John, you cannot be serious. Don’t you audit his orders?”

He shrugged. “There isn’t much point. The time he ordered 400 bottles of washing up liquid he genuinely needed them for a case. The cheese was a typo. I don’t have time to run through every list; besides, Mrs H adds to them sometimes.”

John became aware that there was some sort of lively debate going on over in the direction of the now-functional (oh, hurrah!) keyboard. After another moment it culminated in Greg cupping his hands round his mouth and announcing to the room at large, “Oi! We’re moving to the Yard! Take your things with you if you don’t want them experimented on.”

“All right, John, where shall we put it? If you want it in here something will have to come down.”

Claude had returned armed with Mrs Hudson’s hammer.

“Oh. Um…huh. I hadn’t really thought.” And suddenly John got a very evil idea. Accordingly, he grinned evilly. He hefted one end of the portrait and Claude took hold of the other. “Right this way. I’m going to look smashing hanging over Sherlock’s bed.”

One quick portrait-hanging later, Sherlock poked his head into his bedroom to find John and Claude apparently admiring his headboard. “There you are. Come along, everyone else is already on the way.” He popped out, then realised something quite different had actually been going on. He swiftly moved his entire self back into the room and set his hands on his hips. “When did we make this decorating choice?”

John, the cheeky bastard, just grinned at him evilly. “Don’t whinge, I’m much more decorative than the Elements.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes to indicate how put upon he was and then made shooing movements toward the door. “Come on, they’ll start without us if we don’t hurry.”

“Why the change of venue?”

“We don’t have enough floor space to accommodate the choreography.”

“Ah, I see. Well, I’m really chuffed you’re providing me with the opportunity to caper about in front of all my friends not just in our sitting room, but actually through the hallowed halls of New Scotland Yard.”

“Don’t be silly. We’ll use the briefing room.”

***

Grandmother rapped the floor smartly with her walking stick and everyone fell silent. She surveyed her students with pleasure and smiled upon them. “Strike up, pipers!” she declaimed. Grandmere cheekily trilled a scale in response. “Benedick calls for the dancing to begin and so we shall end our Production with dancing to celebrate the union of our lovers. Tonight I will teach you the choreography so that our Benedick and Beatrice can practice on their own and will be ready to rehearse with the full cast when they arrive in December.”

She whipped from her reticule a pad of sticky notes and a jumbo felt tip pen. She wrote ‘Benedick’ upon the first sheet, pulled it off, strode over to John, and labelled him. She then proceeded to do the same all down the line of her dancers.

John looked down with bemusement at the sticky note over his heart. He glanced at Sherlock next to him, now neatly labelled ‘Beatrice’. His friend was standing at ease and his eyes were trained stoically forward. John couldn’t help it. He snickered.

Grandmother turned imperiously and _looked_ at him.

He immediately felt two inches tall. He also remembered that this was the woman who had put out a flame with the power of her mind the first time he had met her.

John stood at ease and stared stoically forward.

“Now, seeing the character names will help Sherlock and John because when they get to rehearsals they will know which character they are meant to be dancing with at each change.”

She paused as she labelled Sarah ‘Margaret’, then went on, “We will be performing a traditional English Country Dance so while you will each dance with your partner you will also be interacting with all of the other dancers. You will all then break off and waltz with your partner. Sherlock, love,” her tone changed, shifting from affectionate toward deliberately casual but with an underlying something – perhaps a steel girder? “You will of course be aware that the waltz is not precisely Period. Certain Elements may choose to approach you in an effort to eliminate this flourish I have chosen to add. Inform any Elements who do so that they are welcome to take up the argument with me. They are not allowed to harass any of my actors. Is this understood?”

“Perfectly, Grandmother.”

“Lovely. Now then, you’re all familiar with the basic principles of course, take your partner’s hand and step not forgetting to give weight as you move together. Let’s set to work learning the choreography, shall we?”

So John found himself dancing around not his and Sherlock’s sitting room, and not for the amusement of his friends (well, okay, there was some amusement involved when they got around to refreshing their waltzing skills and the first time John and Sherlock assumed dance position John neglected to remind his partner aloud that even though he was not yet wearing a dress he should let Benedick lead thank you very much) but dancing around the briefing room at New Scotland Yard with all of his friends to the accompaniment of sprightly music and much merry laughter all round.

The funny thing was, holding Sherlock’s hand and each of them giving the other weight as they moved through the dance, maintaining a solid, live, speaking connection even though that was the sole point at which they were joined, wasn’t all that different from all the other things they did together on a daily basis. The language they had developed between them, the code words and the minute quirk of a brow or tilt of a head when there was a need for silence, the hum that was Sherlock in the flat but not within sight, the turning of a page or tappety-tap which was John; they were always connected, they were always supporting each other; they were always giving each other weight as they moved through the dance.


	12. December

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is a costume fitting...and a revelation...also a blender.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Thanks so, so much for coming along for the ride. I'm going to try and get Much Ado up as soon as I can, but I'm not going to post it until it's completely done so I'm not going to hazard an ETA right now so as not to disappoint. :-) It is coming, though, so much fun stuff for the lads to do!

“Just admit it. This is your favourite part of the entire endeavour.” Sherlock glanced over at John who was making no attempt to hide his glee.

“I freely admit it. Sherlock Holmes balancing on a little stool in a dress is ample reward for all the hassle I’ve been put through this year.”

“Several dresses, in fact,” said the curvy blonde who was peering at Sherlock’s hemline from behind a pair of spectacles with cat's eye lenses. “This would be a lot easier if you would decide how tall Beatrice is going to be and then stick to it. At your last fitting you were a good three inches taller.”

“It depends on how indulgent he’s feeling,” John explained. “On good days he lets me be taller. Just before the last fitting I’d nicked the last chocolate hobnob.”

Sherlock sniffed indignantly, but before he could launch any sort of counter attack his third cousin twice removed jabbed his shin with a straight pin and he yelped instead. “Sorry,” she said, not sounding sorry at all. “Do hold still, Sherlock.” She went back to pinning the hem for reference and advised John, “I’m almost done here, go ahead and slip into your regimentals, won’t you? I think that one is fine but I want a last look. We want to make sure you look yummy,” she added.

Sherlock looked down at her, a grin teasing the corners of his mouth. “Yummy?”

“Mmm hmm,” she agreed absently. “I know you probably don’t want any competition, cupcake, but your fiancé is, quite frankly, a stud and it’s my job to make sure that comes across loud and clear.”

John made a snerking sort of noise as he dropped his trousers and began to shimmy into the skin-tight bottom half of this particular costume.

“Where are you honeymooning, by the way?” she asked.

John and Sherlock exchanged an amused glance.

“I wasn’t aware we’d set a date yet,” John chuckled as he attained victory over the arse-hugging trousers.

Their costumer raised a brow archly and threw him an exasperated look. “Very funny, John. Don’t think you can get out of it by pleading ignorance.”

John felt the stirrings of uneasiness in his gut and he dropped the hand which had been reaching for the bright red form-fitting uniform jacket. “Wait. What? What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the fact that I’ve been working all year on your wedding outfits and - Sherlock you can slip out of this and take yours into another room so that John doesn’t see you in it yet - and you’re bloody well wearing them for your bloody wedding in two weeks if you don’t want me to go homicidal on you.”

Both men stared at her, mouths agape.

Sherlock’s stuttering brain caught up with him an instant later and he groaned. “Oh, good lord, Cousin Agatha heard about our engagement.”

“What? Who’s Cousin Agatha?” John’s query was soundly ignored.

“You really should pay more attention, Sherlock, everyone has been buzzing about this; it’s being hailed as some of her best work for years.”

“Who,” John persisted, “is Cousin Agatha?”

“I thought she wasn’t even in attendance last year!”

“She wasn’t, but your mother did the rounds in January, crying prettily and complaining about you.”

“Who is Cousin Agatha?!” bellowed John.

“This explains the blender,” Sherlock mused. He turned to John. “This explains the blender, John. You remember; the one which came in the post yesterday.”

John realised he was probably a bit wild-eyed by now. “The blender,” he said stupidly.

“You should be pleased. It wasn’t a veiled threat like you thought it might be. It was just a wedding present.”

“Just a – just a wedding present.” John felt rather as if his brain had been taken out of his head, stuck in the freezer for a few hours, and then returned to him; sluggish and alien and incapable of actually doing its job for at least a little while. “Well, that’s a relief,” he added weakly.

“Seriously, Sherlock, go try on your wedding dress, I don’t have all day.”

***

“You are seriously proposing we actually get married?”

“It’s none of my doing, John.” Sherlock stared intently at the screen of his laptop. “I’m simply informing you that there won’t be much use in resisting at this point. Cousin Agatha,” he tacked on as what was clearly supposed to be an explanation in and of itself.

“Yes, well I’ve never met Cousin Agatha, have I? Does the very fact of Cousin Agatha’s existence preclude any argument about our becoming legally bound to each other for life?” he tried not to sound frantic. He didn’t bother pointing out that it had been Sherlock who had first announced their ‘engagement’ because as alarmed as he felt he still supported anything which stood as armour between Sherlock and the malevolence personified that coalesced into the shadowy cabal of his parents.

“She doesn’t preclude argument so much as she channels it for her own purposes.” He paused, musing. “It’s quite extraordinary, really. I think Mycroft has utilized her on more than one occasion.”

John gave up. He dialled his phone as he descended to ground level. “Congratulate us, Greg, we got a wedding blender. Are you free to grab a pint?”


End file.
